


The Courtship

by Manniness, wanderamaranth



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: F/M, Romance, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-04
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:36:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 108,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/Manniness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderamaranth/pseuds/wanderamaranth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Alice agrees to a 4-week-long courtship before being intimate with Tarrant, she doesn't realize exactly what she's getting herself into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

>   Written for the 2010 [](http://community.livejournal.com/aiw_big_bang/profile)[**aiw_big_bang**](http://community.livejournal.com/aiw_big_bang/) Challenge.

  
__  
**The Courtship**  
by [](http://wanderamaranth.livejournal.com/profile)[**wanderamaranth**](http://wanderamaranth.livejournal.com/) & [](http://manniness.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://manniness.livejournal.com/)**manniness**

 

  
*~*~*~*

 

 **Summary:** When Alice agrees to a 4-week-long courtship before being intimate with Tarrant, she doesn't realize exactly what she's getting herself into.

 **Rating: M+** (sexual tension, adult language, mature themes, explicit sexual situations)

 **Beta:** [](http://just-a-dram.livejournal.com/profile)[**just_a_dram**](http://just-a-dram.livejournal.com/) 

 **Artist:** [](http://sierryberry.livejournal.com/profile)[**sierryberry**](http://sierryberry.livejournal.com/)  -  Fan art for The Courtship can be seen and profusely praised [HERE](http://sierryberry.deviantart.com/)

 **Notes:**   Written for the 2010 [](http://community.livejournal.com/aiw_big_bang/profile)[**aiw_big_bang**](http://community.livejournal.com/aiw_big_bang/) Challenge.

 

****  
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Cover art by [](http://sierryberry.livejournal.com/profile)[**sierryberry**](http://sierryberry.livejournal.com/)   
Please visit her artwork [HERE](http://sierryberry.deviantart.com/art/The-Courtship-Cover-188642923?q=gallery%3Asierryberry%2F8114132&qo=1)!

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0001cwht/)

 

  
[Table of Contents](http://community.livejournal.com/fruitcourtship/15468.html)

 

*~*~*~*

 

  
**Prologue: The Wedding Night**

  
He is _trying._ After all, he’d promised Alice he would and promises must be kept!

 

Still, it is so _very_ hard not to break it when she is standing before him, her dark eyes on his, silent with expectation in a room that is _theirs_ and has been lent to them by the Queen for the sole purpose of doing all of the things Tarrant had Promised not to do until their two fortnights of courtship have passed.

 

 _Only twenty-eight days,_ he had thought. Surely he could survive that long without... surely Alice deserves that much wooing... surely it would take at least that long to deepen their friendship into something... Muchier.

 

But it has not been twenty-eight days. The Queen had interceded – as kindly and well-meaningly as possible of course – and now Tarrant finds himself with a quandary:

 

Will he be breaking his promise to court her properly if he touches her now?

 

“We’re married,” Alice observes. Her voice is a bit flat – shocked. Yes, it had all happened Very Suddenly.

 

“I believe so, yes,” he replies and forces himself to stay right where he is. If he were to lurch toward her now, here – in their honeymoon suite of all places – he’s sure he would startle Alice even despite her... eagerness (although she hasn’t _seemed_ all that eager recently!) for More. Perhaps frighten her. (After all, he has given her _no indication_ of his impatience, has he? Yes, yes, Tarrant has been _very careful_ not to show her the true face of his Need for her!) Were he to reach for her now, he would only mean to comfort her – not to Take or Demand any sort of marital liberties! – but would he be able to stop himself there, with a small gesture of commiseration, of compassion? He... is not sure. He fears that, after everything that has occurred since that morning tea time on the hill overlooking the castle – since their... _fascination-exploration-revelation_ in each other following the taste of squimberries and the scent of batten – he would be unable to stop himself were he to move the slightest bit.

 

Alice is his wife. _His wife._ _ **His.**_

 

His ear itches; he fears to scratch it.

 

“I...” Alice says.

 

“Yes, quite.”

 

“Is this...”

 

Tarrant watches as Alice takes a deep breath and swallows. “Yes, Alice?”

 

“Is this what you want?”

 

The question startles him, for Alice would never have asked it only a few days ago. No, a few days ago she had sat herself on his worktable, pulled him between her thighs, had taken his hand and _begged..._

 

His fingers jerk and, mouth dry, he replies, “I am... not sure. I promised you a proper courtship, Alice.”

 

“Yes, I remember.”

 

His lips twist into a smile at her droll tone. Her opinion on the matter had been Very Clear: she had not been in favor of the... inevitable _delays_ of a courtship. No, not at all.

 

The moment of silence bends, twists, stretches.

 

Tarrant hears himself propose, “We could request an annulment.”

 

“ _An annulment?_ ”

 

Should he feel gratified – should his masculine pride puff up – at the alarm in her tone?

 

Regardless, he finds himself somehow... soothed by her reaction. “Aye. We could... continue with the Courtship. As we—” At her pointed look, he corrects himself. “As _I_ intended.” He glances away nervously. “I would have liked to have asked to be your husband...” He winces at the thought of that moment gone, lost, unmade for all of time now. He’d never really expected that he would be capable of _wanting_ to be anyone’s husband. He’d never really _hoped_ that any woman would want him in that manner... A forbidden dream that had become reality far, _far_ too quickly.

 

“No annulment,” Alice replies firmly.

 

He blinks at her for a moment. “But, Alice, when you touched the crown with me and...”

 

“I know. I’m sorry. But I... _want_ to,” she struggles to explain.

 

His heart nearly explodes in his chest. She doesn’t... _now_ , but _she wants to!_ And, oh, he can see by the consternated expression on her face that she is _trying_... Does she know how very precious that gift is? So often these sorts of things are accidents – based on luck or lust or chance or even ill-fate – but Alice is deliberately trying to...! She Very Much wants to...!

 

“Bu’ ye’re no’ ready,” he whispers softly.

 

With a rather Muchy look that does a considerable amount of damage to his resolution to Stay Right Where He Is, she retorts, “I’m more than ready for _some_ things.”

 

Yes, yes, she is. He tries not to remember that morning tea time, the library, the Berrying, the workshop... He forces himself to take a deep, calming breath.

 

“But you’re not ready, either,” she answers. “I think you were counting on those two fortnights, Ha—... _Tarrant_.”

 

He clenches his fists and fights a shudder. His given name still sounds awkward coming from her lips, traveling on the tone of her voice. But it has never sounded lovelier to his own ears. In time, when Alice has become accustomed to addressing him so familiarly, how sweet will the sound of it be then? He tells himself not to Hope... He warns himself that Alice may never feel as he does. They are friends. She cares for him. She _trusts_ him. He reminds himself that she is young – so young – and he is old and this cannot possibly become what he wishes it will and the danger in allowing himself that close to her is...!

 

“Fez,” Alice announces, gaining his attention without startling him, without touching him, tempting him. Just as he had asked her to do; Alice _listens_ to him. Alice cares enough to Really Listen to him!

“I beg your pardon, Alice. You were saying?”

 

“I have a suggestion, if you’d like to hear it.”

 

“As always, I am delighted to hear your thoughts on any matter.”

 

“Then, come,” she says and reaches slowly for his hand. As she threads her fingers through his, he watches her with eyes he is sure are far more luminous than normal – Alice does not wish to be Unmarried! And she is _trying_ to...! She _Wants_ to...! – and _tries_ not to move without her expressed consent.

 

“Where to, my Alice?”

 

“Onto the balcony. Let’s sit at the tea table and... talk.”

 

“And you will tell me this idea of yours?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

He keeps her fingers in the possession of his own – there is no need to confine her touch to his arm now! – and moves toward the pawn-shaped archway. They step outside and he assists her with her chair before taking his own. For a moment, they face each other across the bare surface of the table... and then, unable to bear the obstacle of disconnection between them, Tarrant reaches out across it, both hands open and palms turned upward. With a smile and a relieved breath, Alice places each of hers in each of his.

 

“Now,” he says as the heat from her touch warms him. “Tell me your suggestion, please, Alice.”

 

She does.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

  
**Chapter 1: The Announcement**

_14 days earlier...  
_  
  
They served pears at luncheon.  
  
Pears.  
  
Surely this day will be the death of her!  First that kiss – _Why hadn’t he **finished**  things?_ Alice had always been under the impression that men, given the chance, would have a woman  _under them_  in half a second once the woman in question had made her willingness clear! – and then the torturous, silent, un-companionable walk back to the castle –  _Not nearly as enjoyable as the outbound stroll... no, not at all!  Why had the Hatter been behaving so... tensely?_  – and now this!  Pears!  
  
It’s enough to drive a woman to... to... to do something Rash!  
  
Alice glances to the side, past the empty chair to her right, to where the Hatter, hat uncharacteristically tucked under his arm, is conversing in hushed tones with the Queen.  Alice’s curious gaze isn’t the only one focused on the impromptu conference and many of the court’s courtiers are already whispering amongst themselves, brewing up speculation and breeding gossip.  
  
Alice closes her ears to the lot of it.  She is not in the mood to humor them or pretend interest in their homemade rumors.  She pointedly ignores the glances that flicker questioningly in her direction – they’d all seen the Hatter escort her to her seat and claim the one beside hers for himself before requesting a private moment with the Queen – and wonders what the Hatter could possibly be saying to the White Queen to make her look so thoroughly overjoyed?  
  
The discussion finishes with a regal – if enthusiastic – nod, a twirl of air-bound fingertips and what could be a whispered instruction.  The Hatter nods as well (looking singularly pleased) and turns back toward the table, his hat still doffed.

As he takes the seat beside hers, sliding his hat beneath the chair, Alice opens her mouth to ask what that had been about but manages to inhale a puff of Hatter-scented air.  Her words crash together in her throat, jumbling up and dispersing on a vague choke.  
  
“Alice?  Are you well?” he asks, leaning closer, absently unfurling his napkin and placing it on his thigh.  Frog footmen begin delivering the first course and filling glasses with scented water.  
  
She stares at him, breathes in his scent – just a ghost of its aromatic potency here, but she  _remembers_ – and debates how exactly to answer that.  
  
And then it’s Too Late.

“My dear friends,” the Queen announces, stepping toward her chair at the head of the table.  “It gives me great pleasure—”  So much pleasure, in fact, that the woman appears to be  _radiating_.  “—to declare our luncheon to-day a Special Occasion.”  Appreciative murmurings echo in the tapestry be-draped hall.  The very tapestry beside which the Hatter and the Queen had conversed waves enthusiastically, obviously delighted with the news that is about to be shared.   With a delicate wave of her hand and a majestic nod down the table, the Queen directs the attention of all.  “Our Royal Hatter has an announcement he would like to make.”   
  
Like everyone else, Alice turns toward him.  For the tiniest instant, she wonders what he could possibly wish to say to the entire court – for he’s never shown any interest in socializing with them in the slightest – and then a perfectly Dreadful idea tickles her mind.  
  
 _No... he wouldn’ t...!_  
  
When the Hatter lays his napkin down on the table, disregards his plate, stands, turns toward Alice’s chair, places his left hand possessively on the back of it, and clears his throat loudly despite the fact that he already has everyone’s undivided attention, Alice discovers herself in a situation that is beginning to become uncomfortably familiar.  
  
“Good luncheon, everyone,” he begins nervously.  “I beg your pardon for delaying this delightful meal, but I would like to take this opportunity – the very first opportunity! – to announce—”  
  
 _Oh, no!_  
  
“—the initiation of a Courtship between Miss Alice... erm...”  He pauses, frowns mightily, glances about as if the search through his memories involves checking the bouquet at the center of the table, his collection of silverware, and the bread basket for wayward thoughts.  
  
Frantic with her own disbelief that this is happening, that he had actually  _meant_  what he’d said about courting her  _properly_ , Alice gapes as the Hatter flounders in the midst of his announcement.  Upon completing the inspection of his surroundings, his green gaze darts toward her and his brows draw together in a sheepish expression.  He holds up a hand to beg a moment from the crowd, and then leans down to her.  
  
In a voice that carries despite it being composed of a whisper, the Hatter lisps, “I beg your pardon, Alice, but I don’t believe I’ve ever been given the pleasure of hearing your full name.”  
  
The absurdity of the situation makes her respond a bit tartly, “Well, I’ve never heard yours, either.”   
  
“Ah.  I am  _terribly_  sorry.  What with all the slaying and such I suppose the proper introductions simply slipped my mind.  Tarrant Hightopp, Haberdasher to the White Queen, at your service, madam.”  
  
Alice finds herself automatically sliding her hand into his and marvels at the power of correct manners.  Even in the most ridiculous of circumstances.  
  
“Alice Louisa Kingsleigh,” she replies woodenly.  
  
“A pleasure,” the Hatter –  _Wait, no... Tarrant, wasn’t it?_  – lisps.  “And a very lovely name, indeed, Miss Kingsleigh.”  
  
Before Alice can manage to mutter some appropriately vague reply, he straightens, still holding her hand.  “Yes, thank you for waiting, everyone.  As I was saying, I would like to announce the Courtship of Miss Alice Louisa Kingsleigh and myself, Tarrant Hightopp.”  
  
The silence which greets this announcement is – somehow – much... Muchier than the earlier politely attentive version of it had been.  Shock, it seems, Resonates.  Especially in tapestry be-draped luncheon halls.  
  
“Lady Alice...?!” one man chokes out, breaking the silence.  Alice hides a wince at the form of address.  She is not a Lady – she had refused (as politely as possible!) the Queen’s generous offer of becoming one, actually – but many of the courtiers, like Sir Geoffrey, have insisted on using the title when addressing her.  
  
Alice – still caught up in the wave of shock making the rounds of the room – can only sit and stare stupidly at the assembled audience.  The Hatter’s fingers – thicker than hers, strong and rough – tighten their grasp.  
  
It’s the Queen who intercedes on what is rapidly becoming an Awkward Situation.  
  
“ _And_  Mister Hightopp, congratulations!” she sings, leading the half-hearted smattering of applause.   “Later, Mister Hightopp, Miss Kingsleigh, if you will join me for tea, we shall discuss the particulars of your arrangement.”  
  
“Thank you, your majesty,” the Hatter –  _Tarrant!_  she once again reminds herself – replies.  “We  would greatly appreciate your assistance.”  
  
 _We would?_  she muses as he takes his seat.  He brushes his thumb once over the back of her fingers before releasing her hand and then he once more airs his napkin with a flick of his wrist.  The gesture sends another Hatter-scented breeze in her direction.  She inhales helplessly, feeling her blood race.  Good Underland, has he always smelled this good?  
  
Alice gives herself a brief shake and reaches for her salad fork.  Still, no matter how luscious he smells he should not have announced...!  Why, she hadn’t really agreed to...!  All she’d wanted was...!  
  
“Botheration,” she growls at her plate.  
  
The Hatter glances at her out of the corner of his eye.  His brows quirk in a silent question but Alice merely sighs and shakes her head.  She has far too much to say to discuss things  _now!_  
  
Still, perhaps she might catalog them for ease of reference later.  Yes.  
  
 _Let’s see... First..._  
  
Oh, how mortifying it had been to realize she and the Hatter –  _Tarrant, blast it!_  – had never introduced themselves.  What had she thought she’d been doing this morning, kissing and climbing all over the lap of a man she had not even been given leave to call by his proper name?!  
  
Still, it had seemed so insignificant at the time!  Had they not conspired against the Red Queen together, stood side-by-side on the battlefield together?  Has he not been her closest and most trusted friend and confidant since her return to Underland?  Their friendship had never required Proper Names.  She had rather liked that about it, actually.  
  
And yet, despite her considering this man to be one of her very best of friends, what does she really know about him?  She knows he is a hatter.  She knows he is alone, without any family at all and very few friends, those being Thackery and Mally and – sometimes – Chessur.  She knows he likes walking and sharing stories.  She knows he is quite knowledgeable about Underland and its history.  She knows he can speak Tree.  She knows he is her friend and he smells divine and tastes even better and... until his blasted announcement, those things had been more than enough for Alice!  
  
But now...   _Now...!_  
  
“La, courtship!” Alice’s other seatmate – one of the younger members of Mirana’s court, a lady by the name of Philomena – says, her plump cheeks glowing.  Alice recalls her as being a friendly sort, if a bit overly excitable at times; and she appears to be  _ecstatic_  to be sitting next to the newly-claimed-in-courtship Champion. “Oh, courtships  _are_  lovely!  Especially this time of year!”  
  
“Er... are there many couples courting at the moment?” Alice wonders aloud, her curiosity – momentarily getting the upper hand over both her shock and outrage.  
  
“Oh, a fair few!  It’s a marvelous practice!”  Philomena pats Alice’s hand reassuringly.  “This is your first one, yes?  Well, never fear!”  
  
“Fear?” Alice parrots apprehensively.  Just what had she tacitly agreed to?  
  
“Now, so long as you mind the rules and follow the instructions, things will be just lovely!”  Philomena pauses, waves her salad fork in the air (to which the cutlery objects with a “Oi!  This is a bit nauseating and not proper table manners!”) and squints.  “Let’s see...”  And then she giggles and confides, “This will be my third Courtship, so you would think I could remember all the ins and outs by now...  Oh, yes!  Well,” the woman clears her throat and adopts an authoritative tone, “The most  _important_  point is that the two of you must never be alone together!  Also, you mustn’t enter each other’s private rooms.  And you shouldn’t allow him to prepare your tea for you once the Courting has begun.  Oh!  Also, it would be very poor form for you to permit him a kiss – stolen or not!  And then there’s the holding of hands – very improper!  The only point of contact may be your hand upon his arm and even then gloves and jackets with fully-lengthened sleeves are required.  You may send letters that have been approved by your chaperone and you mustn’t forget…”  
  
Alice gapes as her overly-friendly seatmate continues with her lecture, interrupting herself every now and again to add an addendum or relate a Case In Point.  Yes, she’d been aware that kisses would not be allowed during the Courtship but... but... holding hands!  Being alone together?!  Chaperone-approved letters?!   _A chaperone?!_    
  
Ten minutes ago, Alice had had more freedom with Tarrant as his  _friend_  than she does now as his... his... whatever-she-is!  Now, it seems, there are so many things that they  _can’t_ do, that Alice despairs of them ever finding activities that they  _can_  do.  
  
Alice stabs at her meat viciously. In retaliation it squirts her in the eye, then jeers. Put off food after such treatment, Alice is forced to do nothing more than sit back and listen to Philomena outline Alice’s Courtship—and,  _blast it!_   If Alice had  _wanted_  to engage in a courtship with someone (which is a still-unresolved issue at the moment!) – then it should be done on  _her_  terms!  
  
“…and you’ll simply have to do the Berrying this coming Thursday,” she enthuses. It becomes clear just why she is so insistent when she confesses, “Sir Roger and I will be there—it’ll be ever-so-much fun! But then, if you’re unable to fit it in amongst all the other Courting events and required courtship duties – naturally, you’ll have to partake in  _those_  first! – I understand. Oh, listen to me, suggesting this-and-that when you haven’t even had your meeting with the Queen yet! La!”  
  
“I wasn’t aware there were a great many... requirements to a courtship,” Alice grits out. Her hazel eyes, narrowed with Profound Irritation, flick over to Ha… _Tarrant_ , (she supposes she had better get used to using his given name in her head first, if she’s ever to manage to use it at all in public) but he studiously avoids her gaze as he coaxes his pudding into allowing itself to be cut.   
  
She does notice that his hands betray a slight tremor—as well they  _should_ , the Champion thinks viciously.   
  
“You mean you—?  La, but of course!” Philimina positively shrieks, and Alice wishes briefly that she could sink through her chair and into the ground when many sets of eyes return to her direction in order to stare. “You are an  _Uplander!_  You’ll not  _Know!_ ” A plump hand reaches out and squeezes Alice’s arm affectionately as Philomena’s white-blonde curls bob. “Now, the  _very_  first thing you’ll do,  _after_  teatime with the good Queen, of course, is visit the Luckluster Library. Now, this is not a typical Library nor is this a usual Visit, but it’s ever so-much-fun!  Why, when I was courting Sir Edgar, we…”  
  
Alice resists cursing the Hatter aloud, bites back a sigh, and – for the sake of her own peace of mine (what little remains of it at this point) – allows Philomena’s words to pour in her left ear and out her right.  She cannot think about this now.  If she does...  
  
Alice’s fingers curl tighter around her dessert spoon.  
  
If she  _does_  think about all of this now, she fears she’ll so something Very Rash, indeed!

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tarrant Hightopp is still marveling over the fact that he is no longer a single man (or, rather, that he is no longer as single as he had been just that morning!  Why, he had most definitely  _not_  expected when he had awakened earlier than usual to prepare the picnic things for his and Alice’s teatime that he would be half of a Courting pair by lunch!) when the White Queen floats behind Alice’s chair and smiles in such a benign yet firm manner that the courtiers who had dared to approach the Champion scatter like nervous chickens. Tarrant watches Alice’s face as Mirana places one hand first on the blonde’s left shoulder, then her other on his right.   
  
“If you both would be so kind as to come with me, we can begin to discuss the particulars of your arrangement now. I know I suggested tea time, later, but…well…” the Queen trails off and is silent for so long that Tarrant begins to suspect she had lost her train of thought (and if that is the case, then she had best join the queue to buy another ticket – train rides are not free, not even for the Queen). His eyes flick from Mirana to Alice’s suspiciously quivering lower lip. Undoubtedly the amount of attention they’ve received since his announcement is starting to overwhelm her; Alice has never been one for crowds, he belatedly remembers. He’d simply been so thrilled at the idea that she had agreed to court him that there had been no room for any other thoughts in his head besides plans for he and she and what the next four weeks would entail for them. Just as he clears his throat to agree with Mirana, she presses:  
  
“Tea will be just as welcome now as it would have been then, will it not?” Her dark brown eyes meet Tarrant’s, and she looks down at Alice’s mostly full plate, before looking at him again and raising her brows significantly. Alice  _is_  rapidly becoming overwhelmed despite the happy occasion. Her food sits mostly untouched on her plate, a testament to this fact.  
  
Tarrant catches the implications, recalls his silence on the walk back from the hilltop, and allows himself a moment of regret for those lost moments with Alice.   
  
Still, there had been speeches to Plan (not that his speechifying had gone well at all, he recalls, and his face would have burned in mortification over that fact except, thankfully,  Alice hadn’t seemed to mind in the least!) and a Queen to inform and…  
  
Several emotions cross his face that he’s sure scream his thoughts: the wonder and slight fear and growing trepidation that the near-silence she’d seen him maintain during the meal only worked to make his Intended (and how grand does  _that_  sound?)  more nervous, rather than less. He’d never thought…but he does now!   
  
A possibility he’d not even allowed himself to dream is before him, and he’d decided to grasp it with both greedy hands. His Intended is not just anyone, either, but the most glorious of personages, the loveliest of lovelies, the Alice!  Why, if anyone had suggested that he would be Here – sitting next to Alice after having announced their Courtship – even as recently as yesterday, he would have...  He would have...  
  
His heart would have broken at the thought of that impossible possibility.  But it is  _not_  impossible!  Alice had agreed to the Courting!  He had held her hand throughout his announcement!  The Queen had given them her full support and approval (which, he realizes, had been quite needful)!  
  
Tarrant glances briefly in Sir Geoffrey’s direction.  The man is standing with a small collection of his counterparts (and these courtiers do seem to be rather interchangeable!) very obviously  _not_ participating in the conversation on-going around him but  _glaring_  at Tarrant.  Tarrant summons up his brightest grin and enjoys watching the man’s face blossom into a garden of angry red before he addresses the Queen’s invitation.   
  
“Of course, your Majesty,” he acquiesces gracefully, and Mirana straightens with a smile.   
  
“Whenever you are ready,” she sing-songs, floating towards the exit.  
  
“Shall we, my dear?” Tarrant murmurs, thrilling at the fact that he may now  _call_  Alice his Dear.  In fact, the sudden freedom to do that very thing nearly makes him cackle with glee, but he manfully bites back his mirth.  Alice is stressed enough and she will, perhaps, not be of a mind to share in his mirth... despite the fact that he thinks she could do with a good, long laugh to settle her nerves.  He shall have to settle for second best in this case: providing a comforting presence. Standing, he extends his hand to Alice, who takes it with alacrity. The warmth of her touch against his roughed palm and fingers sends a pleasant jolt through his body, and he can feel his smile grow wide, wider than it’s been, he’s sure, in a very long time. He tucks Alice’s hand into the crook of his arm, reveling in her easy acceptance of his gesture.   
  
They reach Mirana’s study door in good time. How Tarrant manages to make it there without once tripping over his feet, he’s uncertain, as he spends the entire journey looking at Alice and not the ground upon which he treads. There is a faint flush high on her cheeks. He just barely checks the urge to run the back of his fingers across that pinkness. He lurches forward with the notion, and Alice steadies him with a hand on his opposite arm.  
  
Instead of inquiring as to his welfare, as he’d expected-hoped-longed for, she releases his arm and returns her attention to the Queen. Tarrant is gratified to note, however, that the flush on her cheeks is even deeper now than before she had touched him. An ever-growing-familiar-and-not-unwelcome feeling flutters in his chest.  
  
He considers this fluttering feeling and has to stop himself from shaking his head in rueful wonderment.  Precisely one week and one eaten pear ago, he had not felt this way for Alice.  She had been his friend.  She had warmed him with her humor and caring and Alice-ness.  A week and a pear ago, he would have given his life to save hers.  During the Revolution, he had taken such a risk several times, but all with the end goal of bringing down the Bluddy Behg Hid in mind.  Now, however...  Now he feels brave enough to  _wrestle_  a Jabberwocky for her; he feels strong enough to climb the Crimson Cliffs from crashing ocean waves to rigid rocky edge; he feels tall enough to reach up and pluck tea trays from the sky!  Yes,  _now_  he would do far, far more than merely surrender his life for far, far humbler goals.   He cannot think of a single thing he would not willingly do to see Alice smile.  Surely, this means that this fluttery feeling in his chest... surely this must mean that he has somehow fallen (or perhaps slipped or tripped) in love with—!  
  
A gentle tug on his arm keeps him from crashing into the Queen.  With a start, he realizes that they have arrived at their destination.  And again he had neglected to speak to Alice – his Intended! – during the journey.  He bites back a sigh; yes, Alice has every right to be irritated with him over that.  He must do better at attending to her!  Still, his distraction is understandable, he thinks: Why, Alice had _agreed_  to the Courting and... and...  
  
That fluttery feeling vibrates even stronger beneath his breastbone.  
  
The Queen slowly grasps for her keys, and Tarrant sees her study her Champion from under her eyelashes as she does so. A look of calculation passes over her features, barely visible unless one is looking for it, or has seen it in the past.  
  
Looking from Mirana to Alice, he sees that the gob smacked expression is still etched on his Intended’s  face. The Queen’s intentions become clear when she burbles, “If you will but give me a few moments? There are a few things that… need tidying up.”  
  
It is a White Lie, yes.  
  
But Tarrant does not care—he agrees that perhaps a bit of privacy with Alice is not remiss. They will have precious little of it in the coming weeks, after all. There is no one around to speak against them being granted these few moments, either—not that any would comment on such a thing even if they were present, with the Queen herself being the one to grant them this favor.   
  
Mirana doesn’t wait for either of them to answer; she simply slips around her door and shuts it.

 

*~*~*~*

 

The door clicks shut with an audible clack, and Alice immediately rounds on the Hatter. She barely refrains from smacking him on the arm like a petulant child.

“What did you go and do that for?” she hisses, perplexed and more than a little shamed. The entire affair at luncheon had reminded her a little too greatly of Hamish’s proposal party, complete with far-too-many sets of round eyes staring and an overly-enthusiastic blonde giving her unasked for and  _unnecessary_  advice.

“Do what?” Tarrant asks her, clearly confused despite his obvious and overwhelming expression of quiet joy. This simply serves to unnerve and infuriate her even more. “Oh! You mean... I am sorry Alice. I have been far too quiet during our walks this afternoon.”

“What? No! No. Why... announce…that announcement…at luncheon!” Alice’s Irritation is enough that she has a difficult time expressing herself in words. Somehow, she is able to force just enough of the sentence past her lips to be understood, though, for she sees the moment Tarrant comprehends her meaning. His face falls. His honest dumbfoundment vanishes... along with all traces of happiness. Alice feels a twinge in the region near her heart at the sight.

Brows twitching, he looks down at his hands. “Why would I not?” he nearly whispers. Swallowing hard, he adds in a louder tone, “Ye’d agr’d ta tha Courtin’, Alice….There would be naught to be gained from waitin’ except muir time betwixt now and that which ye wish ta occur.” Worry flashes across his face. “Unless ye’ve already changed yer mind…”

“Changed my mind?” Alice echoes. “How could I do that when I’d never  _made it up in the first place?!_ How  _precisely_  did I indicate to you that I wanted this?”

His expression hardens, sends a shiver up her spine. He leans closer, his tone lowering. “When ye were devourin’ mae like ye di’ tha’ pear, Alice. Or d’nae ye recall?”

Despite sudden heat flaming within her and upon her face at the reminder, she rebuts, “I  _recall_  you interrupting the proceedings and nattering on about courtships and such!”

“’Twas needful at th’ time,” he rumbles.

“What was  _needful_  was a clear explanation of  _why_  I should consent to this in the first place!” Indeed. From what she’d heard from Lady Philomena, the practice sounds perfectly  _wretched!_

Lips compressing in a scowl, Hatter turns from her, eyes shut tight. “And why should ye? I didna even know yer  _full name!_ ”

Before Alice protests that she hadn’t  _planned_  on kissing him (and if she  _had_ , she would have had the good sense to ask him his proper name first!), he rounds upon her with a sudden motion. Alice can’t stop the spike of alarm she feels at the horrible, tortured grimace on his face.

Tarrant spits angrily, voice rising alarmingly, “Do ye see what ye do ta mae, Alice?  _This_  is why the four weeks of Courtin’ are needful! I want ye ta love mae as a man, no’ as a beast with nae true name, someone who’s only use ta ye is ta satisfy the cravin’s o’ yer body!”

Alice would have been insulted – most definitely! – at his insinuation that she simply wishes to ‘use his body’ (Is he not still her friend, as well? Even if they…well, that wouldn’t mean that their friendship would change, would it?) had her mind not ceased functioning at a very important word earlier in his ranting statement. She keeps blinking heavily, as if by doing so, her brain might once more be able to process thoughts.

_Love_?

_**Love?** _

She very nearly speaks the first thought that  _does_  manage to come to mind:  _What has love anything to do with this?_  She wants  _him._  He  _clearly_  is – or, at least, he had been! – of a similar feeling on the matter! This is about how irresistibly amazing he smells, tastes, feels to her. This isn’t about  _love!_  In fact, when is  _anything_  about love? Love certainly hadn’t been involved when Hamish had proposed! In fact, Alice rather suspects that her sister loves  _being_ Lady Manchester more than she actually loves the man whose name she has taken!

But she can see, as she looks into the Hatter’s flashing eyes and watches his brows twitch with quiet stress... Yes, she can see that – amazingly – this  _is_ about love...  _to him._

_Oh, Alice. How could you be so insensitive!_

It is as unexpected as it is moving that the Hatter –  _Tarrant! –_  would equate lovemaking with actual Love.

Instantly contrite, she takes a step towards him, laying one hand on his arm. He has to understand that she’d never intended for  _that_! She never would have asked for...

Alice doesn’t know if she is ready for something as serious or involved as what courtship seems to mean to him (and despite her insistence on following the rules and minding the instructions, Lady Philomena had seemed rather blasé about the whole thing – she certainly hadn’t felt any inhibitions whatsoever in confessing to this being her  _third_ one!) nor does Alice know if she’s ready for…for… _that_! Tarrant’s eyes are enormous in his pale face as he looks down first at her hand, and then back up and into her eyes, as if that touch upon his arm is more important than anything else in the history of Ever.

“Hatter, I—” she begins to say, hoping she will be able to find the right words, (and just  _why_  are words so slippery for her today?) when—

The door to the study opens, and the Queen steps out, smiling. “I am ready for you now. Please, come in.”

Alice fancies something like disappointment drains the expectant, hungry look from Tarrant’s features, but he rallies quickly enough. “Thank you, your Majesty,” he says.

She hates that look, she decides, that particular  _No-of-course-nothing-is-wrong!_  Look... and Takes Steps to rectify it. Above all else, the Hatter is her friend and he needs...  _something._  And after all the other misunderstandings that have occurred today, she is not going to let another one happen now. Not when she can prevent it.

The Hatter gestures for her to precede him into the room, but Alice has other ideas.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but we’ll need another five minutes. Thank you.” And then she shuts the door on the Queen’s burgeoning – and highly amused – smile.

Alice turns toward the Hatter – no, toward  _Tarrant_  for he  _is Tarrant_  right now; he is a man with a heart that should be whole and his own and before this situation becomes any more convoluted, she needs to  _talk_ to him!

Alice grasps his upper arms. “Tarrant,” she says and watches as his eyes light up and relief shrugs the clinging layer of tension from his being.

“Yes, Alice?” he replies in a hopeful whisper, leaning toward her.

“You need to know that I... I...”

“Yes?” The word is barely a whisper and she suspects that he’s holding his breath.

“You’re my friend,” she tells him. “And I... Do  _you_ want this? This Courtship?”

Perhaps she will know herself better once she knows what it is  _he_  wants...

“I want  _ye_ , Alice,” he replies softly but with a confidence that Alice instantly envies. “Ye’re mae friend, tae. I d’nae want ta lose tha’. An’ if’n ye’re wantin’... muir than tha’, then... aye, I want aur Courtship. ’Twould make me ver’happy ta know ye’ll stay in Underland fer aul time...”

She frowns. “But, I told you I wouldn’t be going back to London.”  _Won_ ’ _t. Can_ ’ _t._

“Aye, an’ I heard ye.”

“But you didn’t believe me?”  _That_ hurts more than all the rest.  _That_  hurts more than when he’d pushed her away on that hilltop, more than the betrayal of his luncheon announcement.

“I... I... do not know,” he confesses, his brows twitching with the disturbing realization. “I promise I shall give it due consideration and relay my conclusions but at the moment I would very much like to know... Alice, do  _you_  want this Courtship?”

Alice closes her eyes. Sighs. “I do not like limitations, rules. If I enjoyed those things I would never have left London.”

When she opens her eyes, Tarrant is still leaning toward her hopefully, but there is a thread of apprehension holding him away from her now. “Ye’re nea keen ta tha rules o’ aur Courtship.”

Alice nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak regarding this point. Once she begins voicing her displeasure on it she is unsure she’ll be able to stop herself from getting carried away. And this is most definitely not a moment to allow oneself to be carried away from.

“Alice...” She watches as he searches for his own slippery words, this time among the draperies and wingback chairs in the sitting room. “Tha courtship rites... ’Twere nae meant ta limit a couple, but ta show them their aun hearts. Ta open those hearts, if’n ’tis at aul possible.”

“And you want to try this... with me...” she concludes.

Yes, it makes sense now. Tarrant does not want to... engage in  _intimate_ activities with someone he doesn’t love. The courtship is meant to show people their hearts, which will help him discover if it possible for him to love her or not... if he loves her  _enough_ to give her what she wants...

For some reason, that thought makes her very uncomfortable.

“And after the Courtship...?” Alice whispers. She glances up at him.

He frowns, glances away, takes a deep breath before returning his attention to her. “We d’nae hav’ta wed a’ tha conclusion o’ tha Courtship. Many couples d’nae. They go their separate ways.”

“So we would no longer be friends?!” she very nearly shouts, alarmed.

“Hush, Alice. I’ll  _always_  be yer friend.”

She sees the promise in his earnest, green eyes and feels the knot of panic ease away from her heart and dissolve... mostly.

“And the other?” Alice asks a bit apprehensively. She does not think her opinion regarding marriage will change anytime soon, but she’d still very much like to continue where they had left off that morning. “If I still want...?”

_Alice! What are you doing? You’re asking the Hatter to **love**  you enough to...?!_

_But we’ll still be friends! Everything will be **fine**!_  she argues back, shushes that shocked and shamed inner voice.

He nods, slowly. “Aye. Gi’me these twine fortnights, an’... we need nae be wed ta... continue this morn’s tea.”

“ _If_ you are agreeable,” Alice feels compelled to add.

He nods and swallows thickly.

“Then, all right,” she relents. “I agree. To the Courtship.”

Tarrant’s smile returns.  (Unfortunately it is neither as bright nor as joyous as it had been at luncheon.)  He takes another cleansing breath and glances at the door, his brows rising in inquiry. Alice takes a deep breath herself and nods. He reaches for the door knob and as he does so, his other hand brushes down her arm. The sensation of his rough, warm fingertips making contact with the bare skin of her wrist sends a shiver down her spine. The touch scatters her thoughts and, the next thing she knows, she’s regarding the face of the Queen, who is smiling in pleasant expectation.

“Everything all discussed then?” she hums happily.

“Everything, Your Majesty?” the Hatter replies with a startled look. “Not hardly! No, no, there are far too many topics available for discussion for  _all_  of them to have been discussed in the first five minutes and then the second five minutes which... Oh! I beg your pardon, Your Majesty!” he exclaims, noticing the clock in the room and the time. “That was a bit more than five minutes, wasn’t it?”

Mirana smiles as she pirouettes gracefully toward the tea table. “Perhaps... Perhaps not! Five-minute discussions will require precisely five minutes, however long that takes!”

Alice finds herself openly admiring the grace and generosity that statement demonstrates. She allows the Hatter –  _Bugger all! **Tarrant!**_  – to seat her at the tea table. He pours her tea (which she supposes is technically still allowable since they haven’t  _actually_  done any courting yet) as the Queen explains, “Now, Alice, as you are rather new to Underland and its customs, permit me to tell you what a courtship entails...”

Alice lifts her teacup when Mirana pauses, smiles and nods to the Hatter in thanks for attending to her cup, and takes a sip.

“Thank you,” Alice whispers to him and his answering smile is so utterly handsome she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that her tea is too sweet.

“Now, there are five instructions that must be followed  _precisely_  in a successfully completed courtship and each can be done with as little or as much time as you both like or require.” The Queen pauses here and inquires, “Unless you have set a duration for your Courtship?”

“Yes. Two fortnights, Your Majesty,” the Hatter supplies helpfully.

“Ah. I see.” Her brows twitch with something that might be Worry or Upset. “Two fortnights is rather...”

Alice has the impression that the Queen is on the verge of suggesting a much longer span of time so Alice hurries to reassure her. “If the Hatter—” She mentally pinches herself for once again  _not_ using the man’s given name. “—may be excused from his regular duties, I believe two fortnights will be plenty of time.”

“Oh, but of course! Tarrant, you do know that no hats whatsoever will be required of you while you are engaged in your own Courtship?”

He nods. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Well. Two fortnights it is then,” the Queen continues with a thoughtful gleam in her eyes. “So, as I was saying, there are five instructions. And in following them, it is vital that historical accuracy be observed. These instructions are: Get to Know Each Other, Behold the Key to Thine Heart, Speaking From the Bottom of Thy Heart, Uncover Thine Secrets, and Reap What Ye Has Sown. Any questions so far, Alice?” the Queen asks solicitously, breaking for a sip of tea.

Alice gapes at her. Luckily, the Hatter not only speaks Tree but also Alice Silence.

“Ahem, perhaps,” he interjects in a helpful tone, “if we were given some examples of acceptable activities? I vaguely recall that Getting to Know Each Other involves a trip to the library?”

“Ah, yes, it does indeed,” the Queen continues. “And I beg your pardon, Hatta, it had not occurred to me that you would also like to be reminded of the particulars.”

“It... has been a long time since I last heard... And even then I did not concern myself with the details.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. I am sorry. Now,” the Queen says decisively, hauling the three of them back to the topic of tea. “It’s traditional for the Courting couple to spend a series of afternoons in the Luckluster Library. As the focus of Getting to Know Each Other is a Meeting of Minds, a library is very useful in accomplishing this.”

The Queen pauses and sips her tea. Alice is still not clear on what, precisely she and the Hatter – _Damnation!_   **Tarrant!!**  – are supposed to do in a library. Perhaps... “Are we to... read to each other?” Alice ventures. “Or discuss works we’ve enjoyed?”

“Oh, something very similar to that, yes,” the Queen replies. “The library behaves  _a bit_  differently for each Courting couple, you see, so it’s very hard to say one way or another – with any certainty – what to expect.” No doubt seeing Alice’s alarmed expression, the Queen hurriedly adds, “But it  _will_  be a library, Alice. Nothing more, nothing less. Hopefully, your time in there together will provide you with a direction for the next few days... until it is time for you to Behold the Key to Your Heart.”

“And, how long will each... instruction take?”

“As long as is necessary to fulfill the spirit of each.” The Queen gives her a comforting smile. “When the library shows you the Key, you will know it is permissible to Move On.”

If that is supposed to somehow make sense to Alice... then the Queen has failed abysmally at explaining the concept.

“Before you can begin, however, we shall have to locate a chaperone.”

Alice – very bravely – refrains from making a face. Tarrant leans forward and suggests, “I do not believe Thackery would have any objections. And it might do him a bit of good to get out of the kitchen.”

“And our Royal Chefs back into it! A wonderful suggestion! Alice? Do you concur?”

“Um... yes?”

“Wonderful! As custom dictates, I shall approach him on your behalf. If all goes well, when shall I have him stop by your rooms, Hatta?”

“Oh, well, Alice? When would you like to pay a visit to the library?”

“Well... I don’t have any plans for this afternoon...” In fact, she’d left her entire day open – had turned down Sir Geoffrey’s rather persistent invitation to a game of table tennis – so that she might accompany the Hatter –  _Bloody hell!_  – to the workshop after lunch and investigate the oddities there. It has been well over a week – before the Pear Incident, actually – since she’d visited the cozy, eclectic atmosphere of her friend’s workplace. Alice has missed listening to him prattle on about this fabric or that ribbon and the hands, hooves, paws, or  _fins_  that had made them and the fascinating lands from whence they had traveled...

“This afternoon it is, then,” the Queen declares with such delight that Alice is cheered despite herself. “Alice, where may Tarrant call on you when Thackery is ready to accompany you?”

“I suppose I’ll be in my rooms.”

“Ah. Hatta...?” she sings in a warning tone.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Looking appropriately cowed, he recites, “’Not one toe over the threshold.’ I remember that rule.”

“And the others?”

The Hatter announces them indicating each with a raised finger until he exhausts the list and the Queen is satisfied. “All clear Alice?”

Somehow, Alice manages a nod. While the Courtship itself is still a mystery to her, the Rules had been very clear. Unfortunately.

“Now, off you both go and you’ll meet again very soon!”

And so off Alice goes... alone to her rooms and even more confused about this whole courting business than she’d been only two hours ago on a picnic blanket overlooking Marmoreal Castle.


	2. The Luckluster Library

Alice still marvels at how she has managed to come to be here of all places.

 

“Th’ Luckluster Library!” Thackery announces, reaching for the door handles. “’Tis been sae laung since I’ve had th’ pleasure o’ seein’ it!” The Hare braces himself and attempts to dig his hairy feet into the polished marble floor of the hall for leverage but only manages to scramble like a unicorn on ice skates.

 

The Hatter – _Gah!_ **Tarrant**! – rescues him. “While we appreciate the thought, Thack, I’m afraid Alice and I each have to open a door for ourselves.”

 

Alice looks up as her... well, her _Intended_ gestures her over to the high, slender, painstakingly engraved, white wooden doors. She still can’t believe that – just this time yesterday – things had been so very different! For one, she hadn’t known why she’d been feeling so tense and oddly anxious around him. And, for another, her maid hadn’t argued with her over her wardrobe so vehemently and fussed with her hair for nearly so long! (Why she must wear a _dress_ to visit a library Alice still has no idea whatsoever.) Of course – this time yesterday – Alice had had no idea of how heavenly the Hatter tastes, smells, feels in her arms and against her fingertips and lips. It is that reminder – the Goal, in other words – that gives her the gumption to reach out and grasp the right side handle as the... _Tarrant_! takes the left.

 

Tarrant had thoughtfully explained during their chaperoned stroll from her rooms (which he, as per the Rules of Courtship, had not dared to put even a single toe across the threshold) to this very quiet yet breathtakingly luminous wing of the castle: it’s traditional, he’d informed her, to spend the first days of courtship in the Luckluster Library, comparing tastes in literature and the like. (Alice would have preferred a _literal_ rather than a _literary_ comparing of tastes, but, alas, _that_ – kissing – is also Against The Rules.)

 

“But I haven’t read any Underlandian literature,” she’d protested when Tarrant had declared that she’ll have the honor of sharing her favorite books and poems with him first. In this case, the lady _always_ goes first, educating her potential husband on her preferences in genres, authors, characters and so on.

 

“Ah,” he’d replied a bit awkwardly. “Well, then, I suppose I shall have to assist you with first discovering your favorites so that you may show them to me.” His brows had twitched a bit nervously at that, but he’d said no more about it.

 

And now here she is: on the threshold of her own Courtship. For a moment, Alice considers what it will mean if she opens this door, begins their Courtship in earnest. She wonders if this is the point of no return.

 

 _Do I really want to do this?_

 

“Alice?”

 

She looks up at the – _Damnation!_ – Tarrant’s worried lisp. “The door will not open unless you wish it to...”

 

She looks into his eyes. He’s nervous, too, she sees, but he is not nervous in the same way she is. She wants her friend back and their freedom of privacy and his hands on her and his taste on her tongue and his scent overwhelming her mind... He wants love. Alice does not know if they should begin this journey while their objectives are so disparate.

 

But she had promised him she would _try_. And she will. She will. She _is!_

 

Alice inhales deeply, nods, and the door gently begins to swing open under the slight pressure of her hand. The room that is revealed is like no other library she has ever seen. It appears to be housed in an oval-shaped turret of the castle and the entire first floor is lit by rows of long, slender windows, between which are long, slender book stacks. There are two rolling ladders which lead up to a balcony of sorts which is ringed by more thin windows with more woefully spatially inefficient shelves of Underlandian tomes. Her gaze follows the rolling ladders on the second level to the seemingly identical level above that... and then the level above that... and then...

 

“How many stories is this place?” Alice breathes.

 

Tarrant giggles. “A great many, I should think. One per book at the very least... well, discounting those that give instructions rather than tell tales. Not that you would want to read a book that had the nasty habit of telling tales—”

 

“I might, actually,” Alice interjects, just to be contrary. “I’d be curious to see if it could keep its story straight as time goes on.”

 

Tarrant considers that, gives her an odd speculative frown, blinks, and says, “Well, shall that be our first objective then?”

 

“Finding a book that tells tales?” As tempting as that sounds, that might take a bit more time than she’d like to spend on this portion of the Courting. “Maybe some other time.”

 

Alice turns and conducts a thorough visual survey of the library ’s ground floor. Thackery has already made himself useful by lecturing the doors not to let anyone into the room while Alice and Tarrant are courting within it... and has digressed into informing the doorknobs of the many unfortunate side effects one might experience – digestively – if one endeavors to determine whether or not brass polish can be used in place of butter after the very last of the butter has been donated to various watch works and time piece gizmos.

 

“Shall we start over here?” Alice asks over the litany of distracted mumbling and occasional eureka-esque shout.

 

Her companion nods amicably and gestures for her to precede him. She does and, choosing the nearest book stack, begins scanning the titles that climb up the colorful spines of the texts, attempting to discern exactly what this particular collection’s overall classification is. She reads:

 

 _Basket-weaving with Bandersnatch Whiskers_

 _Spent Tea Bags: Life after Brewing_

 _Jacques the Jay-eyed Jubjub_

 _The Mystery of Mr. Mungdy’s Mountain_

 

“Mystery...” Yes, that sounds like a possibility. She lifts the yellow, cloth-bound tome from the shelf and opens it... to find page after page of sketches. The only subject is a solitary mountain and its many faces. Page after page after page of the same mountain from the east, the north-east, at dawn, at noon...

 

“Ah, yes,” the Ha— _Tarrant_ muses over her shoulder. “Underland’s tallest mountain. No one knows how it got there, actually. It simply arrived one day.”

 

“Not even Mister Mungdy?”

 

“Well, if he _did_ then it would hardly be a mystery any longer, would it?”

 

“I suppose not.” Alice returns the book to the shelf and selects another. This one has a red binding. It opens in her hands and she finds herself looking at what first appears to be a collection of sonnets... that have been written in...

 

“Are these the footprints of... birds?”

 

“Lark Language, by the look of it,” Tarrant agrees.

 

“I don’t suppose you can read it?”

 

“Not a verse. Nor speak it. I have never had a chirpy enough disposition, I’m afraid.”

 

Alice closes the book and, turning to face him, holds it up. “Why is there a book written in the language of larks in a library for people?”

 

“Why wouldn’t there be?”

 

Alice’s brows arc. “Well, it’s a book for larks, isn’t it? How would they even open it let alone get it out of its place on the shelf? Why have it at all?”

 

Tarrant reaches out and removes the book from her hand. “Just because a thing cannot be used, does not make it useless.”

 

Alice takes a deep breath and sighs it out as Tarrant slides the book carefully back into place.

 

He clears his throat and wonders aloud, “Shall we try the ones on the second level?”

 

Alice considers the rolling stairs and frowns.

 

“Um...”

 

“Come, come! I have the feeling that the best books are closer to the top!”

 

“Er...”

 

“Here. I’ll hold the ladder. You’ll be perfectly safe.” He strides over to said ladder and grasps it firmly, demonstrating his immovable intentions and dependability as a ladder-holder. Alice glances toward Thackery. He is currently sitting on an ottoman, engrossed in a large book that appears to be an illustrated guide to the development of the common potato. Before she can talk herself out of the perfectly _sneaky_ and _underhanded_ idea that has entered her head, Alice accepts his invitation.

 

She strides over and places her hands on the ladder rails and her slippered foot on the lowest slat. “Thank you,” she informs him with a smile that feels far too devious to be genuine. At least from her side of it. Tarrant’s brows twitch in reaction and his green eyes focus – as well as they are able – on her lips. His tongue darts out, very briefly, to wet his own. “My pleasure, Alice.”

 

And she’ll ensure that it is. She turns toward the ladder and, with a bit of unnecessary sway to her hips and too-high stepping, begins to climb. She makes it to the third slat before she hears him catch his breath.

 

“Yes?” she asks innocently, turning to look over her shoulder at his expression. Tarrant is staring at her ankle – her _bare_ ankle – with one hand raised, poised just above her skin.

 

“Ye... ye are nae...”

 

“I don’t like them,” she informs him, referring to her missing stockings.

 

“Is that so?” he murmurs, his fingers twitching. With what appears to be a considerable concentration of will, Tarrant looks up at her through his wild brows. “Is there anything else ye d’nae care for?”

 

She turns carefully on her perch and leans back a bit against the ladder. “Perhaps...”

 

Perhaps it is her tone or the look in her eyes or her smile that invites him up to join her. In truth she is not sure. But it hardly matters. He accepts. Her heart pounds as he places his booted foot on the bottom rung and climbs up after her. Her lips part as he draws closer, her breaths become more and more difficult to catch.

 

He is just one rung beneath her now, caging her in on the ladder. She can feel his chest pressed against her stomach and his hips between her knees. She leans down, her gaze on his mouth, her mind filling with the memory from just that morning: his scent and flavor and...

 

The ladder wobbles alarmingly as she shifts her weight and Tarrant reaches out, reflexively, to steady her. He reaches out, grips her waist, and stiffens.

 

Alice watches his throat work, his lips move but no sound emerges. “I don’t like corsets, either,” she whispers.

 

“No... I can feel you don’t,” he replies, his hand still on her waist.

 

Alice reaches for his face, daringly caresses his lower lip with her thumb, whispers, “Tarrant...”

 

His eyes unfocus and his eyelids droop. He wants this, she sees. He does!

 

“Och, _noe!_ ” Thackery shouts, breaking the moment and scrambling toward them. “Keep yer britches on, Tarrant! I’m comin’ teh get ye dauwn!”

 

Tarrant closes his eyes, shudders, and allows Thackery to guide him back to the library floor.

 

“Thank you for your timely assistance, Thackery,” Tarrant somehow manages to say without growling.

 

“Cannae ha’ ye gettin’ stuck on a ladder, yer first day a-Courtin’! ’Tis _bad_ luck! Very _Bad_ Luck!”

 

“Yes, how tragic that would be,” Alice mutters, accepting Tarrant’s hand and stepping back down to the first level.

 

“Naughty,” Tarrant reprimands her directly, hotly, breathily in her ear as Thackery galumphs back to his abandoned tome. Alice shivers, turns toward him, and does _not_ apologize. Tarrant takes a step back, gives himself a brief shake and motions Alice to take a seat in one of the armchairs in the room. “Perhaps, just for to-day, _I_ shall ascend to the next level and call out suggestions.”

 

“Isn’t that breaking the... _spirit_ of the Courtship?” If she’d understood the purpose of this library visit correctly, that is.

 

“Bending, perhaps. If they are _gentle_ suggestions, I don’t see why anything should be broken,” Tarrant reasons and then clatters up the ladder before Alice can delay him any longer. She leans back in her chair and watches as the Hatter – very chivalrously – pulls himself onto the second level balcony and begins perusing the stacks. He selects a pale blue book from a top shelf. A hand reaches to the inside of his waistcoat and withdraws a simple pair of bronze wire framed reading glasses. These he perches on his nose—after a slightly self-conscious glance in Alice’s direction—and then he Begins.

 

“Wrestling With Wandering Wisteria?” the Hatter – _Tarrant! Bloody ever-lasting Bandersnatches!_ – suggests, flipping open the cover. “Ah... a rather comprehensive explanation of the aerobic benefits to be gained from wisteria wrangling.”

 

Alice snorts. “I’ll pass for now.”

 

“Yes, yes. Hm... let’s see...” Squinting, he plucks another promising-looking tome from the shelf. This one is also a shade of pale-ish medium blue. “Daydreams of Drips of Dew?”

 

“And the main character would be...?”

 

Tarrant looks down at her and arcs a brow in surprise. “A blade of grass, of course.”

 

“Of course.” She sighs and shakes her head.

 

He plucks another book from the shelf. A not-quite sky blue one.

 

“Hatter,” she winces as his title slips out yet again. “Are you choosing these books based on the hue of their bindings?”

 

“Is there another way to sort through strange books?”

 

“Don’t you know it’s not good practice to judge a book by its cover?” she reprimands him.

 

“And Judging – the practice itself – is?”

 

“Isn’t that what _you_ were doing just now? Why are all your choices blue?”

 

“Oh, have they been?”

 

“Yes...”

 

“Ah. Well... perhaps it reminds me of pleasant... things.”

 

Alice opens her mouth to ask what sorts of things those might be but he’s already rattling on:

 

“Would you prefer a nice hazel-ish brown one, then? One finger’s width wide or two?”

 

She sighs. “Let’s focus on searching for promising titles,” Alice pleads.

 

“But that’s the trouble with titles; often times the most promising ones make promises they cannot keep.”

 

“How about the mediocre ones?”

 

“Well, their contents are equally mediocre, of course.”

 

Alice closes her eyes and, reaching up, massages the bridge of her nose. For once, Underland is giving her a headache. Out of patience, she rises from her chair and approaches the stacks on the first floor: perhaps this task will go faster with two pairs of eyes searching. The Hatter – _Argh!_ **Tarrant!** _Make an effort to use his bloody name, Alice!_ – calls down various titles (all of which she would not be surprised to to learn had come, exclusively, from blue-bound books). In what she suspects will become her custom in the following weeks, Alice blames her ills on this blasted Courtship.


	3. The Key

“How is the librarying going, Alice?” Mirana inquires after expertly extracting herself from the milling court members and herding Alice down a quiet path that winds lazily through the East Garden.

 

“Very... slowly,” she admits. “I can’t find a single book that I—! Well, what I mean is... There’s nothing but riddles and rhymes and nonsense in that blasted library!”

 

Mirana laughs. The sound startles Alice. Perhaps this is the first time she has heard it.

 

“Oh, Alice, my dear, _dear_ Champion. The only stories of substance and true knowledge the Luckluster holds are those which comes from _yourself_.” Smiling broadly, the Queen shakes her head. “How long have you been combing through it with Hatta?”

 

“Today will be the fourth day.”

 

“And he hasn’t breathed a word to you about it. What a _wonderful_ man, Alice. Truly. He honestly does treasure your thoughts above all... well, above _many_ other aspects of yourself.” The Queen sends her a sidelong glance that needs little interpretation. “Am I making myself clear, Alice?”

 

“I believe so.” Tarrant has spent the last three days simply _learning_ about _her_? Listening to her complaints and her comments about stories she’d read in London that she’d enjoyed and places she’d been and how she wishes she could find an atlas that illustrated them and...!

 

“And has he been speaking of himself?”

 

“Well... no.”

 

“Then, to-day, sit him down and ask him to tell you the stories he remembers as a child and, perhaps, very soon, your time in Luckluster will be at an end.”

 

Alice’s smile outraces the twinge of nostalgia at the thought of _not_ spending any more sunny afternoons in the turret room. Just as the bitter tang forces her to frown and her smile to droop, the Queen exclaims, “I am _so very happy_ for you both, Alice!”

 

She looks up and the Queen claps her hands together and turns toward her on a smile of pure happiness and relief. “Hatta is very dear to me, you see. How could he not be after all he has done so that I might wear the crown again? And,” the Queen reaches out and, just as she had on the battlefield following the slaying of the Jabberwocky, brushes her white fingers against Alice’s cheek, “you have brought him to life. There is Light in him now. And color. He is himself again because of you. Thank you, Alice.”

 

Alice can think of no appropriate response to that. She smiles. She nods. And, luckily, the Queen seems very satisfied with that.

 

Later, when the Hatt – _Tarrant_ – arrives at her room with Thackery to escort her to the library for the fourth time, Alice looks at him – _really_ looks at him – and he seems... happy.

 

“Once more into the branches and brambles of the tree of knowledge?” Tarrant invites, reaching for the left door handle. He gives her a quick but thorough examination, taking in her dress and slippers. “I do hope you’re properly dressed for this,” he murmurs.

 

“I believe I am,” she answers, reaching for the right door handle. “As I don’t plan on doing any climbing today.”

 

“You don’t?” he inquires, clearly puzzled and then a glimmer of Naughtiness enters his eyes as he realizes what she had more or less confessed to _not_ wearing today.

 

As much as she would like to investigate that glimmer, this corridor is hardly The Place.

 

“No, I don’t. I’m tired of talking about the London I grew up in and the sea voyage I went on and the stories and history of Up There.” She glances toward him and smiles. “I’d much rather hear the sound of _your_ voice today. If you have no objections.”

 

“I... My...? No,” he agrees with a breathtaking grin. “No objections at all, Alice.”

 

And then they coax open the doors. The following hours are spent alternately seated in armchairs and, when Alice dares Tarrant to prove one assertion or another, standing beside the book stacks or staring up at him as he searches the other levels for a tome that supports his most recent proclamation.

 

“The moon is not made of green cheese!” she protests at one point.

 

“It is! It is!” he insists, clambering up the ladders to the fourth level and plucking a book he had identified the day before from a shelf. “It says so right here, and I concur!”

 

Alice smiles and watches as he dashes back down, holding his evidence in hand.

 

He strides over to her, halts just within arm’s length, adjusts the glasses Alice is now used to seeing back up higher upon his nose, opens the book and reads:

 

_“Hey diddle diddle,_

_“The cat and the fiddle,_

_“The cow jumped over the moon._

_“The little dog laughed to see such sport,_

_“And the dish ran away with the spoon!”_

 

“There,” he concludes. “Proof. Cows do not jump over just _anything_ , you know. The only thing that could create such enthusiasm would have to be green, for we know that cows are quite fond of green things like grasses and clovers, and they rather enjoy kicking over milk pails and creating spilled milk which shows their excitement regarding dairy products – of which cheese is a member – so...”

 

He looks up over his frames at this point, perhaps startled by Alice’s continued silence. His brows twitch as he takes in her uninterrupted grin.

 

“Here,” he offers, extending the book to her. “Read it for yourself if you like, Alice.”

 

“I don’t need to,” she says. “Your recitation was more than sufficient.”

 

“It was?”

 

“Yes. The moon is made of green cheese and both cats and fiddles have very resonating calls, although I believe I’d prefer the fiddle’s.”

 

“And the laughing dog?” he inquires, looking _luminous_.

 

“Dogs have wonderful senses of humor. Quite willing to laugh at anything, aren’t they? Especially sports.”

 

Tarrant giggles. “And the issue of the spoon?”

 

“Well, a spoon can’t very well run off with a dish now can it?” No, more often than not, when dishes are cleared, the spoon is carried away with it. Especially in the cases of soup spoons, dessert spoons, and teaspoons.

 

“Alice,” Tarrant begins somehow speaking around snorting giggles. “You _do_ realize I am not being serious at the moment.”

 

“No, you’re being yourself,” she answers. And, she realizes, that she has actually _enjoyed_ herself today. Yes, he _does_ look happy and that is perhaps – in some part – due to her. It cheers her to see that, to know that. This is a kind of power she has never known and it warms her from the inside out.

 

Perhaps she might have the power to make him happy, as the Queen had suggested? It’s a heady idea and a little thrilling. With such power, Alice senses, comes tremendous responsibility. Yet, despite that, she cannot recall ever feeling so... _pleased_.

 

“Och, b’hold th’ key te yer heart!” Thackery exclaims, startling them both and drawing their attention. Alice follows his outstretched paw to the tabletop in the center of the room, on which now sits a simple, brass key.

 

With a frown, she turns to ask Tarrant what it means and is startled by the utterly gob smacked expression on his face. “The key to...” he murmurs and, when he glances at her, Alice sees something that might be the moisture of tears in his eyes. She doubts it is her imagination that makes them seem more bright than ever before. With a shout of laughter, the Hatter scoops her up in his arms, swings her about the room. She feels his breaths against her ear and his lips press against her cheek and the scent of him is overwhelming and the feel of his chest against hers and his shoulders beneath her hands is so warm and solid and...

 

… and he smells and feels even better in his joy. She wonders if his taste has been enhanced as well....

 

“Ar!” Thackery objects vehemently. “Nae muir kissin’! Nae muir shenanegains, Tarrant! Set th’ Alice dauwn _nauw_!”

 

With a last laugh, he does. Alice blinks as he places a butterfly-soft kiss on the tip of her nose. “Thank you, Alice,” he says.

 

And what else can she say to such a display of delight except: “It’s my pleasure, Tarrant.” She adjusts his reading glasses back up onto his nose (in all the exuberance they had slipped so as to nearly fall off) and taps the end playfully with a forefinger. Yes, seeing him this happy gives her great pleasure indeed. However, it _could_ have been _more_ pleasurable had he deigned to kiss her _properly_ in thanks or had she had the opportunity to redress that oversight herself.

 

With a sigh, she watches as he strides over to the table and regards the key with reverence. After a moment of doing so, he reaches out for it, and then stops himself. His bandaged fingers twitching over it, he looks up and asks, “With your permission, Alice?”

 

“Why would you need my permission?” she counters. It’s just a key, after all. If the table in the Room of Doors can be considered a representative of most tables in Underland, then keys winking into existence on their surfaces are a common occurrence here.

 

“Well... this is the key to your heart. And to my heart. Our hearts... respectively. I wouldn’t... Well it would be quite rude to... handle it without expressed permission.”

 

“The key to my heart?” she parrots, starting to feel the slightest tingle of alarm.

 

He fidgets, glances toward Thackery who is investigating the contents of his waistcoat pocket with singular focus, and then clears his throat. He removes his glasses and pockets them (an obvious delaying gesture). Finally he says, “Alice, if I may ask, what were you thinking? Just a few moments ago? Before Thackery pointed out the key to us?”

 

Alice opens her mouth to reply and then snaps it shut. She remembers precisely what she had been thinking: she’d been thinking how much his happiness affects her, makes her want to be better at cheering him, makes her want to be... better. Period.

 

“Yes, that thought,” Tarrant tells her, reading her face. “ _That_ thought called forth the key.”

 

“But... this is your key as well?” she checks.

 

He nods.

 

Feeling slightly more confident, she inquires, “Will you tell me what _you_ were thinking?”

 

A wry smile twists his lips. “Alice. I _have_ been telling you for days.”

 

“No, you haven’t,” she argues.

 

“I have,” he insists. “And when you’re ready to hear it, you shall, and not a moment before. Now, would you prefer to keep the key or shall I?”

 

“You keep it,” she replies, her tone rough. It is obvious he considers the object precious. She trusts him to keep it safe far more than she trusts herself.

 

Once more, his smile illuminates the room. “And I shall!”

 

Alice watches him gently collect it, wrap it in a clean, silk handkerchief and tuck it away in the inner breast pocket of his jacket. She still isn’t sure why the appearance of the brass key had made him so very happy, but she is glad it had. She likes seeing him happy, she realizes. She likes it _very much_ , indeed.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Fanart for The Courtship by [](http://sierryberry.livejournal.com/profile)[ **sierryberry**](http://sierryberry.livejournal.com/)   
Please leave some feedback for here [HERE](http://community.livejournal.com/fruitcourtship/)!


	4. The Berrying

Pennants wave, flags snap, and the air is full of a general feeling of laughter and expectation. Alice isn’t sure what to expect from a Royal Berry Picking event, but she knows that somehow, despite trying to not have expectations, hers have already been broken.

Everything is somehow disappointingly _formal_ , despite the _informal_ nature of the activity itself.

Breathless couples bustle by, and Alice sees more than one chaperone roll their eyes at whatever is being said by couples in not-low-enough voices to one another. Some of the courtiers have employed professional chaperones (which seems to Alice to be a practice that could possibly lead to complications and the probability of culpability, but she keeps this opinion to herself). There are a smattering of guards about, who watch the chaperones watch the couples, and she supposes attributes to part of her disquiet.

Still, the sun is shining, birds are singing, and there is an undeniable feeling of _something_ in the air. (It could be love, or simply lust…Alice blushes as she remembers stumbling across a pair of squirrels that apparently hadn’t been as concerned with proper Underlandian courtship as the Hatter seems to be. They’d been…displeased, with her accidental intrusion.)

She herself feels it, as well. After leaving the squirrels she had been—and truthfully, still is—assaulted by fresh imaginings of she and the Hatter tumbling into the shrubbery, his mouth on her ear…perhaps one of his strong, rough hands on her belly, or sliding down her bare back…

Well, those types of thoughts are pointless, Alice scolds herself. After all, there will be None of That. Hatter is very insistent on a proper courtship. And her imaginings are decidedly _not_ proper.

 

No, not at all.

Alice walks towards what appears to be the main berry stand. Two bears sit underneath the cheerful white awning, where they jealously watch various couples come and go, emptying full baskets of berries into large barrels set up for that purpose. (Story is, this set of bears interfered during the last Royal Berrying, so now their task is to sort and count what is brought to them--and not eat a single one.) The poor things look miserable; Alice can’t help but feel a bit sorry for them.

Tarrant waits for her near the bears. Ducking behind a convenient shrub, Alice permits herself (despite being already late) the secret joy of simply watching him when he is unaware of her presence. A bucket with a simple rope handle sits at his feet, the wood is old and faded but the rope appears to be brand-new. Pulling out his pocket-watch, Hatter stares at it, then looks up to scan the crowd.

Wiggling her feet in her new side-buckled shoes, Alice straightens her plain gingham dress, pats her hair, (which is pinned up for the day’s activities) and licks her lips. Seeing him standing there, waiting for her, makes her unaccountably nervous, and she is glad she has taken these few stolen moments to observe him, if for no other reason than to settle herself. Once more she wonders what, exactly, it is that she’s gotten herself into.

More than one courtier smirks at Tarrant as they pass by, causing Alice to feel horrible for selfishly making him wait. She is late (it seems she is always late!) due to the unexpected presence of an attendant in her rooms that had been insistent on assisting her dress. (And then tending to her hair, and then buckling her shoes, and…well, it is a wonder to Alice that she is not _later_ than she is!)

She steps out from the shrubbery and hitches her borrowed basket back up her arm (Mirana had been more than happy to lend her one for this outing) . Alice feels a perverse pleasure at seeing the faces of the courtiers who had been sniggering at Tarrant fall when she appears. The Hatter, for his part, does not notice them at all, but he _does_ notice her. His eyes skitter from her hair, down to the basket, further down to her shoes and then back up to her face. A smile splits his face, and, after bending down to snatch up his bucket, he trips towards her, eagerly tucking his pocket watch away.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she tries to apologize, but he waves away her concern.

“It is no problem, Alice.”

“But all the other couples are already here,” Alice worries. She sees his smile take an unfamiliar, possessive edge, and wonders what she had said to cause _this_ particular grin.

“I assure you, Alice, that you are more than worth waiting for,” Tarrant tells her.

 _Am I?_ She wants to ask, but doesn’t.

“Shall we go, then?” she says, instead.

The Hatter gallantly offers her his arm. “Go? But you’ve just arrived, Alice!” Alice takes it with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“My apologies, Hatter,” she grins. She wrinkles her nose a bit, and corrects herself with, “ _Tarrant_. Should I instead ask if we could commence with berrying, then?”

His eyes twinkle. “I shall never tell you what you _should_ do, Alice. But if you wish to know if I am amiable to the notion of berrying with you to-day, the way the question is currently phrased will suffice for now.”

Thackery shuffles up beside them, cradling a whisk and muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a complaint on the deviousness of mytrille combs. He takes in Alice’s attire, and the (even though she is untried in this area she is confident enough to say) smitten expression on Tarrant’s face, and nods. “Aye, ye’ll do,” he says.

After that, the Hare’s presence is so abstract as to be nearly ignorable, so Alice happily does just that in favor of thinking of other things: how the Hatter’s arm is linked with hers, the way he seems to lean towards her, the strong solid warmth of him at her side. She Worries about how there seems to be an almost physical weight of expectation between them now—the comfortable friendship they’d shared before is almost nonexistent. Now Tarrant is so carefully playing the part of the bashful would-be lover, and she...well, all Alice can think on are his kisses and the way his skin had tasted on her tongue and the way he bloody _smells_ (she remembers pressing her face to that warm, collar-concealed juncture where his head and neck meet) and...!

It is not long—two or three twists in the maze—before they lose track of Thackery altogether. Alice decides to not mention the lack of their chaperone, and Tarrant seems to not notice, wrapped up as he is in enumerating for her (staidly, with none of his usual color or dramatic forms of speech, she notices) the complexities of his last creation (a handbag that is also a hat, for ease of transport).

At the end of the furthest hedgerow of their current pathway they stop. The nearest couple to them is several yards away, quite far enough that they can have a semblance of privacy, but not so far as Alice would have liked. Hatter releases her arm and they drift to either side of an enormous blueberry bush—it is so tall that Alice can only just see the very top of Tarrant’s tophat over the greenery. The subject of haberdashed handbags having come to a close, and with Alice not able to think of anything quite so diverting to relate to him in return, they begin in mostly silence. The only sounds that break the still of the day are the plunking of berries into the Hatter’s bucket, the hushed voices of the couple just down the row, and the drone of the Worker Bees setting about their task of pollinating.

Being in the Hatter’s presence has never been this difficult for Alice before! Why does she find it so impossible to think of amusing things to speak on now? Another berry squishes between her already-stained fingertips, and she sighs in frustration.

A pause in the rustling of the leaves on the other side of the shrub occurs, and then: “Is…something amiss, Alice?” Tarrant asks her.

“I’m not quite sure what I’m doing,” Alice admits. “All I seem to be managing to do is getting juice all over my hands and—” a quick glance down at herself confirms her suspicions, “down the front of my dress.”

“Have you never gone berrying before?” Tarrant sounds amused at such a notion.

“Not since I was a little girl,” she retorts a bit sharply, and instantly regrets it when silence greets her from the other side once more. “Would you tell me how?” she asks contritely, instead of directly apologizing.

Yet _more_ silence greets this, a silence that stretches long enough that Alice thinks he is not going to answer her. Then the Hatter gives a odd, half shuddering sigh. When he speaks, his voice is warm and low, the lowest she’s ever heard it with the lisp still present. “The first thing you need to do is find a good prospect,” he tells her. “Those tend to be further towards the back of the field. The shy bushes, yes? Those that are bold and brash and directly in the front have all of their sweet berries already picked, don’t they? All that are left on _those_ indiscreet plants are the small, hard, and bitter fruits. Unless you have a taste for bitter berries, my Alice, it is better to wait a bit longer, walk a bit further through the brush, and then pick the fruits waiting for you _there_.”

Alice begins to wonder if Hatter is still talking about blueberries at all. A fear tickles the back of her mind, a random thought that is hastily dismissed. Yes, Hatter was a patient man, but surely... it has been quite sometime since she’d left him standing on the battlefield and... he is not so patient as all that, is he?

“We are at one such shrub now, I believe, Hatter,” Alice says, remembering the way his hair feels in her hands. One thing is certain to her: she is not even close to boasting such impressive Waiting skills as what Tarrant has. Is it foolish of her, then, to think that she will be able to distract him from his goal? Four weeks is a considerably shorter amount of time than several years. “What next?”

“Y... yes. Quite,” Tarrant agrees, and she can hear him shift again as his clothing brushes against the blueberry bush. “A good berry… one that is sweet to taste, like those berries that we wish to have… they are soft to the touch and right-properly rounded. It is also a good practice to pick them for how they are now. Did you know, blueberries are one fruit that will not ripen further away from their branches? Plucking them early in the hopes that they will change after said plucking is a fool’s task.” A heavy swallow carries through the leaves to her ears, and this time she is the one shifting, causing the plant to rustle from the movement of her body.

“What then?” Alice prompts him, voice soft. Even she can hear the thread of need that has begun to weave through it.

*~*~*~*

 _Say something, lad!_

Mouth dry, Tarrant futilely licks his lips and takes another small fortifying breath. He is beginning to seriously wonder if he will ever be able to eat in decent company again—all manner of gustatory delights are rapidly turning into thoughts of Alice, of devouring her, of the way she’d looked as he’d placed the squimberries in her mouth, the feel of her lips closing around his fingertips when he’d not pulled away in a timely manner...“Brush it, gently, with just the tips of your fingers. Too harshly, and it will burst right in your hands.”

He makes the mistake of looking up, then, and he can see just the barest glimmer of her skin through the dense branches, and then his hand is there, reaching around. “C’mere, lass,” he hears himself say. He knows he shouldn’t; this is not a mulberry bush, made for swinging round and round. He knows they are too far away from the other couples, that he will be beyond tempted to do more than hold her hand.

But he asks her to come to him nonetheless.

A warm hand, stained with blue-purple juice clasps his. “You come here,” Alice says, in a breathy laugh. She tugs him forward, pulling him half-way through the bush itself instead of around it. His clothing is undoubtedly torn in spots and possibly dotted with blueberry stains, but he doesn’t mind. Laughter burbles up his throat.

“Nay!” he chortles, as he takes a step back playfully in an attempt to pull her towards him instead. The blueberries apparently have other ideas, though. In his merriment he forgets to watch his step, and Tarrant lets go of Alice’s hand in just enough time to prevent her from being dragged to the ground with him. He hits dirt with a small _oomph_ , breath knocked out of him and wincing from the pain of an unfortunately placed rock meeting his lower back.

“… Hatter?” Alice calls, and he can see her hand blindly groping for his amongst the leaves. He’d been successful in dragging her through the way she had him, then! “Are you alright? It sounds like you fell!”

Struggling to answer her promptly does not work, for all he is able to manage is a strangled wheeze. Something that sounds suspiciously like Alice saying _Bugger this_ comes from the blueberry bush, and then she is crawling out of the tangle of branches. Soon she is leaning over him, concern causing a small furrow between her light brows.

“I’m… fine,” Tarrant finally says. “Just… took a tumble.”

“So I see,” Alice murmurs. “You should be more careful, Tarrant.”

His name on her lips, with her leaning over him in such a manner, (and with such obvious care!) makes all manner of things low on his body clench pleasantly tight. From where he is laying on the ground he can see the top swell of her breasts _very_ well through a gape in her gown, and he can not seem to look away. Her skin is so creamy there, smooth and delicate looking. He wonders how it will taste on his tongue, if ( _when_ , his obnoxiously optimistic side unexpectedly chimes in) he has the opportunity to…

“Tarrant, did you hear me?”

“Hmmm? What was that, Alice?”

He comes back to reality to see Alice smirking at him in a very disconcerting manner, and he rapidly thinks of several things to say, to try to stammer out a convincing argument that he was not looking where she thinks he was looking, but Alice surprises him by neither calling him on his licentiousness nor taking the opportunity to tease him.

She leans down and kisses him, instead.

Luckily, his hands are already brushing scraggly tufts of grass and he grips the poor things now to keep himself from hauling her, bodily, on top of him. Her lips are warm and smooth against his and her breath puffs from her nose against his cheek. And _oh_ how he wants to open his mouth and slide his tongue between those lips and taste her again...!

She tastes him. His lips part in reaction at the feel of her tongue gently brushing them. A small sound escapes his throat before he Commands himself to _Stop Now_!

“This is much better,” she nods as she pulls away from him. Licking her lips, she informs him, “Now you can teach me properly.” Sitting back on her haunches, she helps to right him to a sitting position, and prompts, in a tone much too hithering for Tarrant’s peace of mind, “How did you suggest removing the berry from the bush? Brush it gently with my fingers?”

Tarrant watches as she timidly tickles the berries with her fingertips. He pushes aside the most-pleasant tingle the sight of her attempting to coax the berries off their branches kindles in him, and sits forward.

“Nay, no quite like tha’, lass,” he says, his brogue betraying him. Careful to not meet her eyes (so she might not see the warmth of his regard reflecting in his undoubtedly changing eye color) Tarrant moves so that he is on his knees beside her. Even as he tells himself it is a terrible idea, his arms wrap around her; his chin rests on her shoulder. A traitorous hand slides down her arm until it envelops itself around Alice’s own. He can feel her breath hitch, tells himself that his actions are for purely educational purposes, nothing more!

“Roll the berries off the branch with yer thumb,” he murmurs into her ear, as his hand beneath hers leads her through the motions, “and into the cupped palm of your hand. Yes, just like that.”

Alice looks at him from under the fringe of her lashes, a coy motion Tarrant is unfamiliar with, coming from her. She shivers a bit in the circle of his arms, but before he can inquire as to her welfare, or apologize for his forwardness, she’s turning. They are still both on their knees, and the action causes their chests to press together quite intimately. He can feel the soft pressure of her breasts through her dress, and his mind very unhelpfully reminds him of Alice’s lack of preference for corsets.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers, “and open your mouth.”

He does, damning himself for a fool even as he obeys. The soft gingham of her dress is fisted in his grip as she comes closer to him; it is either maul the dress or the woman wearing it, and Tarrant is certain that if he touches her bare arms in this moment, he will be lost.

“There,” Alice says, her fingers gently probing his bottom lip. “How does that taste?” she asks him.

Tarrant begins to open his eyes as he bites down on the fruit; she chastises him by placing her warm hands atop his shaking ones.

“Keep your eyes closed, Hatta.”

A burst of flavor floods his tongue as he bites down on the berry, and Tarrant wonders if the fruit has always been this sweet, or if it tastes so delicious because it had been fed to him from Alice’s hand. A small moan escapes his lips. His hands spasm under hers, desperately grasping more of the crushed fabric.

“Yes...” Alice says, and Tarrant has just enough time to wonder _Yes, what?_ when he feels soft pressure on his lips. Obediently he opens his mouth again, and another small berry is pushed in. Alice’s finger lingers on his bottom lip before she finally withdraws it. Then she’s shifting; she’s pushing him off his knees and back onto the ground gently.

A deep breath, a sigh, and then her lips are on his once again.

Many arguments swirl through Tarrant’s brain, arguments that he _should_ use against Alice’s sensual onslaught. He _should_ remind her that this sort of activity is not Proper Courtship Behavior, at the very least.

Instead, what he says as he returns her attentions with suddenly frantic, messy kisses, is:

“Yes, Alice...but...the—oh, _muttering mome raths!_ —Alice! _The other couples!_ ”

He has the Key To Her Heart, yes? Perhaps that is enough. His body seems to think so, certainly, and if he listens to his feet for directions, why not other portions of his anatomy? Especially when Alice is touching him like...like...

If only she were a bit _less_ Alice in this situation, he might be able to deny her.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Alice says, wriggling until she sits astride his stomach, her skirts and his shirt a barely-substantial barrier between them, “the _other couples_ are decidedly absent at the moment.”

“Thackery?” Tarrant pants, his control rapidly deteriorating. He’s uncertain whether he is asking for the March Hare’s assistance or for a verification of his absence.

“Hasn’t been with us since we entered the field,” Alice says firmly. “It is just you and I, Hatter.”

Just she and he? A dangerous state, surely. Especially as he recalls the way the male courtiers had looked at her as she had walked up, those pilgar lickering tomcatting fools who had no doubt thought that he hadn’t noticed how they’d gazed upon _his_ Intended! He had already been struggling with the urge to take her, mark her, make her obviously and permanently his own—the knowledge of their lack of chaperone does not help his self-control.

Not in the least.

Tarrant feels a sudden need to turn them. He does so, sending Alice’s basket tumbling, and peripherally he sees the blueberries scatter out. Atop Alice for but briefly, she flips them once again, and soon they are rolling in the berries, having a battle of passion amongst the shrubbery.

Little spots of moisture, like bursts of blood from an unexpected wound, like large, fat raindrops from a summer storm cloud, explode into being on his back. His shirt is irreparably stained now, he knows, but doesn’t care as he finally gains the advantage in their miniature struggle.

He sits atop her, hips pinning hers to the ground as she makes needy sounds in the back of her throat. He hasn’t seen her for a whole day, hasn’t kissed her properly in a week, and how— _how?!_ —has he gone without her taste on the back of his tongue for so long?

Hands sticky with juice clutch the back of his shirt, no doubt leaving telling hand prints on his shoulders and down his back. A streak of passion already marks his jaw-line from where she’d grasped his face to kiss him during one of their flipping-tumbles, and a corresponding print encompasses the side of her face, from brow to jawbone.

“Tarrant...” she gasps, arching her back as if to bring herself closer to him. His response to the sound of his name being exhaled by her lungs is to growl her own in return, and hoist one of her legs up, so he can fully press his burgeoning hardness against the femininity he can not stop thinking of. He pushes against her, once, and Alice moans in a completely indiscreet manner, making his blood heat all the more.

Tarrant knows he’s saying a lot of rather improbable things to her in Outlandish, but thankfully, Alice is still unfamiliar enough with the language to not know what it is that he babbles against her loosened hair. She tastes delicious, of blueberries and passion and Alice-ness, and his promises are forgotten as one of his hands rucks her skirt up to her knees, and he will push it up further, to see- _smell_ - **touch** her there where she is aching and waiting for him, to...

He growls her name again, thinking of the lords’ hungry stares, and the Key on a string round his neck. Tarrant’s lips find her neck, where he begins suckling on her skin. Alice is his.

 _His!_


	5. Caught Out

"What _are_ you doing, Tarrant?"

The Hatter freezes, his hand half-way up Alice's skirt, deliciously high upon her thigh. Slowly he withdraws it, and Alice quietly huffs in disappointment, despite the flush burning her cheeks.

"Less than what I _could_ be, Cat."

"Yet considerably more than what you _should_ be." When the Hatter finally sits back on his heels to reveal Alice's tumbled form, Chessur turns his eyes to her. His smile ratchets up, revealing several more teeth. "Alice, how lovely to see you! Are you enjoying the Berrying?"

"Chessur," she acknowledges, torn between giving him a very Nasty look and being relieved that he had been the one to find them instead of someone else (a gossipy courtier someone else). She settles for a Frown. Simple, straightforward and, if the way Chessur cringes back is any indication, effective!

"Oh, _careful_ , Tarrant. It seems our Champion is a bit cross to-day."

"Do you not see the reason _why_?" Alice asks him, struggling to her feet. Tarrant flushes and reaches down to give her a hand, which Alice takes keenly. He begins brushing off her skirts and straightening her skewed blouse, but stops when he apparently realizes just where and what he's touching, and in the presence of whom. A flush to match Alice's flames high on his cheeks, and he drops his hands as if they burn.

"No. I fail to see any Reason at all, let alone Why," Chessur puffs from his current spot (hovering just above the shrubbery) to wind himself around Alice's shoulders. "Perhaps if I placed myself at your Perspective?"

"The only Perspective ye need to be concerning yerself with is one _away_ from here," Tarrant rumbles.

Whiskers tickling Alice's cheek as he responds to the Hatter's charged statement, Chessur says drolly, "Tarrant, if I had done that, where would you be? Taking a turn among the cabbages, that's where, with Alice's reputation lost along the way. Or perhaps this is what is done at these types of Events nowadays?"

An embarrassed silence follows, and Chessur curls his tail up importantly. "I didn't think so," he says, smug. "I shall, of course, have to report Thackery's dereliction in duty to the Queen. You _do_ understand, don't you, Tarrant?"

Before the Hatter or Alice can respond to such a purposefully provocative statement, Chessur is gone, wisping away to drift off in the direction of the Royal Contingent of Berry Pickers.

"Damn and blast!" Hatter curses. He holds his hand out to Alice. When she takes it, she can't help but to note the warmth that had curled itself around her stomach spreads to her chest, making it suddenly harder to breathe than even when he'd… when _they'd_ …! She'd been so close to Causing _something_ , she just knows it!

With a groan wrenched from his own stomach, Tarrant leans forward, kisses her swiftly, then visibly forces himself to take a step away from her. She tries to follow his lips, but he shakes his head. "Nay, Alice. They'll soon be looking for us, if Chessur makes good on his threat."

Indeed, the words are barely out of his mouth when their names begin to be called throughout the maze, and Hatter grimaces as he mutters several uncomplimentary Outlandish insults towards the absent Cat.

"Really, Tarrant? I thought we were past that. You're coming with me. Now."

Make that the _not_ -so-absent Cat. Alice hears Tarrant growl more uncomplimentary curses under his breath, and she places a hand on his arm.

"We should... just go with him," she tells him.

With a shake of his head to clear the yellowing of his eyes, Tarrant takes first a beat of time and then a deep breath, then nods slowly.

"You're right, of course," he concedes.

"Would you tell her if she was not, with that Key on your person? Lovesick fool," Chessur purrs. Alice feels Tarrant's body tense again, and she hurries to interject, "Chessur, we're coming with you. Just...please, don't."

Surprisingly, the Cat acquiesces to her request, allowing them to travel from their hidden, leafy location in relative peace.

All too soon they are directed out of the maze. Alice sees the line of courtiers standing in wide-eyed silence before _they_ see her and the Hatter; as soon as the first courtier glimpses them, though, a horrified gasp and murmur rises and begins growing in pitch. By the time they are in front of Mirana, the volume of noise, had it been caused by any group other than the White Court, Alice would have classified it as boisterous.

"Miss Kingsleigh... Mister Hightopp," the Queen says, and Alice gulps at her tone. She'd never heard her sounding quite so... vexed, before. Vexed, and yet oddly amused, as if she doesn't know if she should laugh or scold them vigorously. Large brown eyes rove over her form, and then move over the Hat- _Tarrant's_ , as well. Looking at the Hatter (blast! Twice in a row!) Tarrant, Alice can see the source of some of the Queen's amusement, at least. Bits of greenery stick out of his hair; there are blueberry juice stains in the distinct shape of hand-prints scattered in... _interesting_... places about his person, and his shirt... His shirt is torn in at least three spots that she can easily see. If she looks anything like he does, they must be quite the scandalous pair, indeed.

"This is not a laughing matter, Miss Kingsleigh," Mirana says sharply, despite the gleam in her eyes. Chessur mists and reforms on her shoulders, and even though Alice can not see all of him, his grin of Smug Satisfaction is hard to miss.

"What have you to say about your behavior?" the Queen continues, forcibly reminding Alice of her mother. Her thoughts shy away from such recollections as she tightens her grip on Tarrant's hand.

"Why is the Queen speaking to Lady Alice in such a manner?" Lord Geoffrey's voice carries clearly in the sudden tense silence, and instead of sinking into the background the way that Alice almost expects him to, he steps forward. Alice can feel a rumble travel through the Hatter, and she hisses, "Tarrant!" just loudly enough for him to subside. His obvious dislike for Lord Geoffrey is something that, until that moment, Alice had never understood. It is suddenly very clear, as the young Lord continues to speak.

"'Tis obvious our dear Champion has been taken advantage of by this... by her Intended," he asserts. The silence that had returned to the clearing is completely overtaken by a new wave of shouting—yes, actual shouts, Alice is amazed to note—that continues unabated until the two bears that had been manning the berry stand step forward, the March Hare a twitching presence between them.

"Thackery," Mirana's attention moves to their errant chaperone, and even Alice can tell it is a purposeful redirection, an attempt to lessen the ratcheting tension.

"Tae m'ch time w'h 'ust 'es watch isna gud fer nae man!" Thackery grumbles in self-defense, before Mirana can completely hone her Focus on him.

"I don't care to know how closely Tarrant _watches_ the Time," Chess snickers maliciously, moving from his perch on Alice down to the ground in front of the Hare. "The fact remains that you still left them unattended, and were it not for my _timely_ interference…" he trails off under the Champion's furiously flushing gaze (and, yes, she _is_ furious! Chessur is right to fear that she may unleash her not-insignificant muchness in his direction, a _most_ unfortunate event that would be... for Chessur, in any case). "Yet there are those here that would call _me_ the irresponsible one," the Cat adds, with a significant glance in the Hatter's direction.

Alice is still staring at Chess, hoping that he is not going to suggest what she _thinks_ he's going to suggest. (Tarrant would not like that at all…neither would she, truth be told. What will her chances be of convincing him to forgo this silliness if he feels he has something to prove to another besides herself?)

As this is occurring—in the midst of the Berrying, no less—with so many other couples (and there _were_ a great many other couples now, many more than there had been even a few days ago… Perhaps the announcement that Underland's Champion has begun courting the Royal Hatter had been more than enough for those couples that had feared their suits being denied to step forward... Alice realizes how busy the Queen must have been approving matches. Of course, she doesn't doubt that there are still a fair few others who are simply seeking the attention that would come with having their Courting time at the same moments as _Lady_ Alice's…) present, the young woman knows that she and Tarrant are essentially at the Cat's mercy. If there were no one else around, oh, things might turn out very differently... still, it seems there is _something_ that she can do.

"Where I come from, you're supposed to _try_ to misplace your chaperone," Alice grumbles under her breath. At least, it was intended to be a grumble; the complaint carries even over the noise, and the arguing gives way to stunned stares. Alice is heartily sick of those stares.

"What?" she asks defensively. "I _am_ courting the man, after all! Of course I want to be with him!" As she says this, she looks up at Tarrant, sees his absolute radiance, knows that he Understands _exactly_ what she is saying, even if no one else in their presence does.

He absolutely _beams_. No, there is no shame here, not between them.

"I want everyone to stop acting like Tarrant is a villain," Alice says. "If one doesn't try to catch a moment or two alone, then one obviously is not really all that keen on their Intended, are they? He didn't do anything wrong! "

"Nay!" Thackery pipes in. "Ne'ther did! 'Twas just lettin' um _think_ twas alone, I was! I'dve been there afore the Moment, I would!"

"The Moment of Conception, you mean?" Chessur snarks, tail waving lazily.

A high – and most likely embarrassed – flush burns on Tarrant's cheeks.

Alice doesn't think she's ever seen the color of embarrassment in his eyes. She leans forward to look, but he lowers his lashes and bows his head.

"That is enough, Chessur," Mirana finally says. She tempers the sting of the musically spoken reprimand with,"Your... diligence in this matter shows your utmost concern for my dear Champion's welfare, as well as that of our Royal Haberdasher."

The Cheshire Cat sputters—actually _sputters_ —as he quickly tries to deny any concern whatsoever towards Tarrant.

The Queen will hear none of it. "Due to your concern, your unique abilities, and the obvious tendencies of this particular couple to... ah..." she trails off delicately and twirls her fingers in their direction, "I feel the best solution will be to officially appoint you as their Chaperone for the remainder of their Courtship period."

"Your Majesty—"

"Your Majesty, really, I don't believe—"

"Is that really—"

"My word is final." Mirana blinks her dark eyes, and silences all their protests. "Miss Alice, Mister Tarrant... you are excused from the remainder of this event. Chessur will see you back to your rooms."

Head bowed (not from shame, but to prevent the courtiers from seeing her amusement at the entire situation) Alice precedes Tarrant, with Chessur ahead of her. As she walks by, she sees the Queen kneel down next to Thackery, hears her hiss in a barely-there whisper, "You let them get caught out? Thackery, I am so disappointed in you!"

" _Four_!" Thackery informs her helpfully.

"Very True, Thackery. Thank you," Mirana agrees, smiling wide enough to show teeth.

Tarrant snickers, Alice chortles, and even Chessur allows himself a reluctant snuffle of amusement. After, he fluffs his tail self-importantly and drawls, "Come along, Champion Alice. Tarrant."


	6. The Locksmith, Part 1

It has been two days since the Berrying. During that time, much had been accomplished, at least according to Tarrant.

Chessur's seeming omnipresence was not as infallible as the Cat would have all believe. Tarrant and Alice had managed to dodge him a time or two; in the process, they had become quite familiar with the interiors of several castle closets. Even the Cat's outrage had been incapable of dimming their mirth when they'd been caught out again.

So, at the insistence of their Chaperone, he and Alice had spent a very lovely day walking together up and down the various paths of the assorted White Gardens, each pointing out what plants and sculptures snagged their attention. It would have been infinitely lovelier, had they not had the interfering presence of the Cheshire Cat _dogging_ their every step (Tarrant had shared this observation of his behavior with the Cat, who had not been amused by the comparison in the slightest) and minutely watching their every move, but he was mostly content.

At dinner that evening, he'd worked up the nerve to broach the subject of the Locksmith, and what they would need to do to even request work on their lock. First, he'd said, they needed to find a proper present for the creature, as was custom.

"The only problem," he'd lisped, "is that I am uncertain what would be the proper gift in this instance, Alice."

It was then that Alice had an immeasurably wise solution:

"Why don't we ask him what sort of gift he'd prefer?"

After dinner, they had done just that. Chessur had made noises of complaint about the amount of time he was having to spend in their presence, had stated that he had his own things to do and places to be, but Alice, with her usual calm manner and rational speech, had petted the _slurvish_ creature's ears and promised that this would be their last activity of the evening.

That had pacified Chess to the point that he only complained every twelve paces instead of constantly. Tarrant was quite proud of her for this unheard-of accomplishment.

At the Shop door, Alice had been the one to raise her hand and knock (he is still so unused to seeing her arms completely covered in the mesh-netting gloves that were popular among Courting women—he would be pleased when he is able to see her Alice skin again, instead of those contraptions of discomfort!). They'd waited in near-silence after, wondering if perhaps the Locksmith was not in. Just when Alice had begun to sigh and turn toward him, just as his fear that she is on the verge of suggesting that they wait until later had started rising, her knock had been answered.

A bird had zoomed out of a knothole, appraised them both with a gimlet eye, and then demanded, "Wot you want, eh?"

Tarrant had bristled at the way the creature dared to speak to his Intended, and had been prepared to step forward, but a hand on his arm had had him subsiding. Alice had stepped forward instead, enchanted.

"I've never seen a bird such as this! Tarrant, look at him! What did he say? It almost sounded like he was humming!"

"Of course, Alice." Tarrant had explained, "He is a humming bird."

She'd continued to exclaim in delight at how gorgeous his plumage was, how wonderful his beak, how smart his wings. By the time her child-like delight had calmed, the bird was quite enpuffed. So enpuffed, in fact, that when Tarrant had finally been able to hum to him the cause of their visit, the bird had insisted on there being no giving of gifts ("For really, the best thing a man of my years can receive are compliments from a lovely young woman!") and that, were they ready, he would be happy to Collect the hair for their Locks the following morning.

So happy as to be nearly overflowing with the emotion, Tarrant had nonetheless forced himself to remain outwardly calm (a very difficult task for him indeed) and inform Alice of their good fortune as he gently escorted her away and back towards her rooms.

"I will see you tomorrow, then?"

"Of course." He'd leaned in to kiss her cheek, had just caught the faint whiff of her unique Alice scent, when the Cat had, of course, had to ruin it for him. What he'd wanted to do was to haul her close, trace her lips with his tongue, dip it inside her mouth, where they could tangle, enmesh, become closer and more complete and—

" _Would you take control of yourself!"_

Tarrant trips back into the present, stumbling ahead of the grousing Cat. His haste and speed requires Chessur to mist and reform, mist and reform, and so on and so forth, just to keep pace. That would be reason enough for Tarrant to ignore his request, but it is a different goal altogether that drives him.

"How can I? Alice and I are getting our Locks of hair Collected _**to-day**_!" Such an occasion it is! Why, he can not recall exactly how long it has been since anyone has even stepped out of the library, let alone gotten to _this_ stage of Courting. He veritably feels like _singing_.

"Yes, I know," the Cat says dryly. "It is all you've been able to babble about since we've left your rooms. I do not care for your shenanigans, Tarrant. I _had_ been very successful in avoiding the White Queen's attempts at luring me into her chaperone program. For _years_ I've turned down her persistent requests and subverted her schemes! Until now. All thanks to _you_!"

"You're welcome. It is a respectable Cat indeed who is gainfully employed!"

A slight whoosh and a puff of displaced air, and Chessur is floating directly in front of his face. "Do you think that Cats care for respectability? Not hardly! Your behavior is a very sour way indeed to repay one who has saved your life, you know. Why, if not for me, you'd be just another bobbing head in the moat of Salazem Grum."

"But I'm _not_ just a head, Chessur, I'm a _Tarrant_ , who is going to an _Alice_ , and… and… now…" he clears his throat; his joy is no longer able to be contained.

"Don't you dare!" Chessur hisses.

Music swells from an unknown source, Tarrant opens his mouth, takes a deep breath...

"Stop that! Right this instant!" Chessur yowls. The music abruptly dies away, sounding like the records he'd play at the tea-table when either he or Thackery would accidentally bump the stand. The breath Tarrant had gathered deflates from his lungs. His bowtie sags in sympathy.

"But-"

"I don't care, Tarrant! _No_ _singing_!"

They were silent for several paces. Then, tilting his head in Chessur's direction shyly, Tarrant says, "This is really happening, isn't it? I'm really… and she's…."

The Cat's face softens as he regards Tarrant. Finally, flopping over onto his back and swimming through the air ahead of him, Chessur agrees, "Yes, Tarrant. This is really happening. You and Alice are courting, and I am really chaperoning you."

"Alice…" Tarrant says dreamily. The music begins to rise again.

"No! Absolutely _not_! There will be no singing while I'm here!" Chessur yowls, but it is Too Late.

 _Give me a smile, the love-light in your eyes_ _  
Life could not hold a sweeter paradise_   
_Give me the right to love you all the while  
My world forever, the sunshine of your smile..._

The music becomes louder and continues to filter through the air. Tarrant steps-shuffles-slides across Marmoreal's marble floors.

 _Shadows may fall across the land and sea_

 _Sunshine from all the world may hidden be_   
_But I shall see no clouds across the sun_   
_Your smile shall light my life till life is done..._

This continues, with Tarrant singing and dancing , and Chessur complaining about it, until they reach Alice's door. Tarrant raises his hand to knock, but before his knuckles can meet the panel, it swings open. The music gives one last triumphant swell of emotive grandeur, and then subsides.

"Anticipating me, Alice?" Gap-toothed and stained though it is, Tarrant still smiles wide.

"Erm… not exactly." Alice rubs the back of her neck with one hand, shuffles on her feet as she looks down at the folds of her skirt. Since the start of their Courting, Alice has taken to wearing skirts again, instead of the trousers and shirts she'd donned when she'd first arrived from Above. While her trousers fit very nicely (showing off the delicious swell of her hips especially), Tarrant has to admit to himself that he holds a certain fondness for the swish of a skirt on her delicate frame.

"I could hear you coming… from a ways off." She smiles cheekily at him; he knows he is not the best singer, but…

"That awful, was it?" he asks, cheerfulness unabated. Taking a step forward, he reaches out and grasps one of her bare hands.

"Of course it was that awful!" Chessur interrupts. "Oh, do not start breaking the Rules already, Tarrant! Let go of her hand." Starting, Tarrant does just that. The Cheshire Cat then redirects his attention to the Champion.

"And you, Alice! Where are your gloves? I'll not be escorting you or Tarrant anywhere if you can not even be bothered to properly clothe yourself."

"They itch," Alice explains petulantly. Tarrant makes a mental note to craft her a better, more comfortable pair than the ones she has borrowed from Lady Philomena (whom had _not_ ordered her gloves from _him_ ). If they are so inferior in quality as to cause her that much discomfort, he must Make Time to craft new pair as soon as possible!

Colors, patterns, and weaves float through his brain (this has the added advantage of directing his thoughts away from how delectable her lower lip looks when stuck out in such a manner—as if it were made for nibbling and suckling upon!) until Tarrant remembers what he'd thought of those gloves the day before. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Perhaps 'twould be best if you _did_ fetch them, Alice."

She stops, looks at Tarrant as if he's betrayed her, and then flounces back into her rooms. The door clicks shut, followed by the unmistakable sounds of slamming and banging, as if she's taking out her frustration with the gloves on the hapless furniture. (Which she really should not do; if she places something within that same furniture later, it might 'disappear', as furnishings are known for being quite tetchy about being blamed for things that are not their fault. Has no one informed her of this? He'll have to correct that oversight as soon as possible!)

The door reopens and Alice steps out, her arms now imprisoned in above-the-elbow fine mesh gloves. This pair is a very light shade of lavender, which complements the pale, pale green of her dress. If the outfit were on another he would call it wonderful indeed, but on Alice, the celery-colored velvet seems...incorrect. Wrong. What could her maid be thinking?

Why, if _he_ were dressing Alice, he would clothe her in silks and cotton, decorate her with ribbons and pearls, adorn her with richest jewel tones, not this washed-out velvet confection of muted enthusiasm.

Holding out his arm and twitching his brows, Alice accepts it and his silent apology with a tilt to her head and a not-quite-smile on her lips. They walk, arm in arm, occasionally drifting too close to one another, which causes Chessur to remind them (again) that they are to Keep Their Distance, that they are not observing Proper Courting Procedure.

And then they are there. Directed to go straight inside by the bored raccoon at the door (Tarrant believes it may be one of the Diggadilly boys, but he is not certain), they are greeted with enthusiasm and warmth from the humming bird inside.

"'Ello, 'ello! Come, come!" Enthusiastically urging them forward, the humming bird from the night before introduces himself as Humbert, informs them that he'll be looking for stray or loosening hairs upon their head with which to craft the lock, and that the process of Collecting could take several hours. He then has them sit in chairs, side by side, and begins to go to work.

"I'll have quite the time with this lock, I'll have you know, boy-o," Humbert says, buzzing from one side of Tarrant's head to the other. "Such curly hair, from the both of yous! At least the Lady's is somewhat smooth, but honestly…" he darts around to the front of Tarrant's head, jabbing his long beak in an alarming manner. "Such frizz!"

"You will be able to craft with it though, won't you?" Tarrant is sure he's seen courtiers with hair more unruly than his own! Just because he doesn't press and iron and flatten and mold it into any number of ridiculously absurd shapes or patterns or…he pats the sides of his head, suddenly self-conscious. "Do you think…?" he hums, raising his eyebrows significantly and looking at Alice.

"Hm! Don't be worrying yourself none about _her_. If an unruly bit of frizzled crest was enough to chase that one away, you'd have never gotten to this point, eh?" Snapping around to the back of Tarrant's head, (only after giving an apprehensive look to the grin floating in the corner) he bobs for his apprentice, a drably colored female that had been introduced as Mulinda.

"You deal with this one, will you, dearie?" Humbert buzzes, and Mulinda nods her acceptance. "No use having an apprentice if you can't give them some of the more undesirable tasks, eh?" Humbert asks him in a conspiratorial manner. "No offense to you, of course!" he adds, no doubt realizing how rude that statement could be perceived as.

"Now, then, let's get to work."


	7. The Locksmith, Part 2

And get to work they do. Tarrant and Alice are poked, prodded, jabbed at. If he and Alice had not directly asked for this treatment themselves, Tarrant would have been tempted to say they are downright _terrorized_. Even having a vague inclination of what to expect does not prepare him for the downright determined ferocity with which the two humming birds set about their task.

His _gratitude_ and _pride_ and fierce _exhilaration_ at the idea that he and Alice are even at this step, are here, are that much closer to...to being... is all that keeps his mood from slipping into Level Orange Irritation.

"Yeowch! That hair was still attached!" Alice jerks away from Humbert, her hazel eyes watering.

Apparently, his Intended is not quite so enamored as he.

 _She will be_ , he Vows to himself. He does not know, despite his Promise to her outside the Queen's study, if he will be able to stand touching her otherwise. To be so close to having what he desires most, but yet not truly _have_ her—!

"And how's everyone coming along?" a drawl suddenly emerges from the soft buzzing of humming bird wings.

Tarrant looks up and blinks just as Humbert gives a very inelegant screech of surprise. (Yes, Tarrant supposes suddenly finding oneself beak-to-sharp floating Cheshire grin _would_ be rather alarming... especially when the latter is seen on that particular scale and at such close range.)

Humbert seems to _freeze_ in the air.

And then...

Tarrant shifts his attention and glares at Chessur, ready to settle the blame on him for giving the Locksmith an apoplexy – and _now_ how will he and Alice have their Locks made! Slurvish Cat! – for no better reason than boredom and catty sadism, when another exclamation pierces the tense, chilly silence.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! And…oh, no!"

Tarrant glances back toward his Intended and Humbert as the bird hum-babbles in a rapid stream of what sounds like apoplectic apology: "Frightened the... well, I was simply... so focused you see and a fright like that... I'm terribly sorry, Lady Alice, why I... Cats _do_ this to birds, you know! Totally involuntary response!"

Despite the litany, Tarrant still does not understand what had caused the Locksmith to prostrate himself so... until he notices the direction of Alice's gaze.

A small, wet, white spot that had not been there before decorates her shoulder. Alice's face takes on an almost greenish cast as she raises it to give a hard, disbelieving blink at the offender hovering nervously by her shoulder. She shudders. Only after that does she turn her attention to Tarrant. She gives him the same long, slow blink she presented to Humbert, and shudders again.

Chessur declares, " Well, my work here is done..." And then wisps away as quickly as he had interrupted and frightened the... er... stuffings out of poor Humbert... who is still looking rather mortified over the mishap.

The Hatter, for his part, is completely unrepentant in his mirthful glee.

"At least it's not a brick?" he suggests helpfully.

Hazel eyes narrowing dangerously at him, Alice visibly checks the urge to swat either hummingbird near her ear or himself. "On my dress, Hatter. _Right on my shoulder_."

"He apologized," Tarrant temporizes, seeing that this may turn into an Unfortunate Instance of Muchness Run Amok if he is not careful. (He's experienced that exactly _once_ since Alice's return to Underland, and once was more than enough. Apparently, salt-instead-of-sugar during morning tea is not something that should _ever_ occur when the Champion is present.)

"Is this not of an…unusual size?" Her mouth wobbles. "For a bird of his stature?"

"No, not at all. He _is_ a humming bird."

"And part of what distinguishes them from other birds is the size of their _shukm_?"

A chortle tickles the back of Tarrant's mouth at Alice's awkward use of Outlandish. He wonders if she realizes that, technically, the word is coarse slang. Wonders, and then dismisses, because even if she did know, Alice would not be fussed about using it. Sailors in Above, she'd informed him one day, had quite salty language, and she'd picked up some of their more colorful terms during her time being ship-bound. (This had made perfect sense to the Hatter, as they _do_ sail upon the sea, which is well know for its saltiness.)

"In London, a bird of that size would never have… would produce… it would not be this large of a splatter!"

Mouth twitching, (he _would_ _not_ laugh!) Tarrant informs her, "This is not London."

Alice turns forward, frown creasing her face with displeasure. She twists back to him, and unbeknownst to her, a thick lock of her blond hair trails through the mess the bird had gifted her with. Humbert hums with anxious distress at the... exacerbation of the... Issue.

"He apologized?" she confirms. "Are you sure that's what he hummed?"

Tarrant nods, his lips pressing together into a tight line. He _must not_ laugh.

"You may tell him I accept, then," she says petulantly, and reassumes her head-forward-for-proper-hair-collection position. The same lock of hair drags back through the... mess; it is now streaked brownish white at the tips.

Another giggle creeps, sneaks, _crawls_ up his throat and escapes out his mouth. He claps his hands to his face, but it is much too late. The giggle turns into a guffaw, and soon he is laughing hard enough that his sides ache.

Alice continues to sit, glaring.

"I fail to see what is so humorous, Hatter," she says warningly.

"You don't! That's precisely what is!"

"Did he _really_ apologize?" The suspicion in her voice is almost precious, _would_ _be_ precious, if not for what it insinuates.

"Of course!" The laughter freezes in his throat. He swallows, but it remains right there, a block of ice. He's surprised his breath does not visibly fog the air as he says, "Alice, I wouldn't lie to you."

A shade of guilt seems to pass over her face as she looks down at her hands. The hummingbirds cautiously resume their task, darting back and forth and selecting hairs. This continues for a little while, and Tarrant is almost desperate to know what Alice is thinking.

He also feels surprise at the fact that Chessur is not making a nuisance of himself... again; the Cat so loves to point out any Flaws that he perceives of Tarrant's. Why it ought to be impossible for their chaperone to keep his mouth shut during this current silence. A look to where Chessur had last been seen reveals the reason for the continued silence; he is corporal once more, flat on his back with his large, fluffy belly in the air, and fast asleep.

"I apologize, Hatter."

He sighs a small puff of relief-tinged air. It will be fine. Alice is not pondering how upset she is with him!

" _That_ hair was still attached as well!" Alice yelps, rubbing at the spot atop her head said hair must have been culled from. But then something seems to catch her attention – perhaps out of the corner of her eye – and she slowly lowers her arms. Tarrant can see her slender throat swallow convulsively.

Then he Sees where her eyes are fixed: right upon the foreign whiteness in her hair.

"Would you… excuse me, please?" she asks, standing up slowly. Her eyes never leave her own hair. Stumbling a bit over her own feet (no doubt due to the lack of attention she's paying them; feet are awfully dependent appendages) she exits quietly.

"Erm… mayhap we shall continue with the hair Collection at a later date?" Mulinda inquires. The constant drone of her wings frenetically flapping nearly drowns out her hesitant hum. Nearly.

"To-morrow, perhaps?" He hates the idea of delaying the Collection any longer than necessary.

"If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion?" Humbert interjects. "Perhaps my apprentice and I could visit each morning during your time of grooming? That way we can collect stray hairs, and not disturb our fair Champion with…our current Collection process."

"How much longer would that take?" Tarrant touches his throat gingerly. It is starting to become a bit sore from all of this humming.

"A day, perhaps two."

"And then another one or two for the crafting of the lock," he says, in Common Underlandian. He is tempted to say no, to say that he and Alice will be back to-morrow so that they may finish this aspect of their Courting as quickly as possible. Then he recalls the look of discomfort on Alice's face, the way her nose had scrunched up, the small grunts under her breath that she'd tried to hide when Humbert selected a hair that was not ready to fall out…

"Yes, that will likely be for the best," he hum-sighs. Humbert nods at him, then goes to two separate piles of hair already waiting for he and his apprentice.

"Don't be so long in the face, you! We'll just get started with this bit, and work as we go with what we Collect. How's that sound, gov?"

"You'd do that?" Tarrant knows that humming bird locksmiths have the reputation for being very particular, both about the gifts they receive for their work, and about having all the supplies (namely, the hair) Collected and ready to use before they begin crafting the Lock.

Humbert hum-mumbles something, his tiny feather ruffling. Then he says, a bit more coherently, "Yes, yes, of course! Mulinda will stop by your Lady's room to-morrow morning, and I myself will be visiting you. Now on you go, gov. We've got work to do!"

Tarrant goes.


	8. The Second Chaperone

_Dear Alice:_

Tarrant lifts his quill, looks at those words on the page, studies them, marvels. He'd love to enumerate upon her many qualities, to decorate his salutation with elegant adjectives, but knows that his Intended will not be the only one to read this missive. Best to leave it simple, to give that _tove-jiving jiggler_ as little as possible to sniff over. He inks the quill and continues.

 _Humbert, our Locksmith, gave a charming suggestion to-day after your departure_ (here he could not help but giggle at the memory of the look upon her face when she had realized precisely _how_ the substance on her shoulder had... migrated to her hair).

 _He proposes that either himself or his apprentice visit us in the mornings to collect the needed hair for the Lock. This will add days to the time before it is completed, but will also prevent tugging on still-attached hair. He will visit you to-morrow._

From there, the missive devolves into a rambling litany of whatever had floated through his mind that day, from the way the sunlight had warmed her cheeks to a lovely rosy hue to the fact that he'd fantasized about removing her gloves with his teeth, of suckling her bare fingers into his waiting and greedy mouth, of flicking his tongue against her palm and listening to her soft sounds of surprise and delight...

" _Blundering bandersnatches_!" he growls, wadding the letter up and throwing it over his shoulder. It joins the ever-growing pile of paper behind him on the floor. He licks the tip of his index finger, selects another sheet of paper, pulls it close, and starts again.

 _Darling Alice:_

 _Our Locksmith, Humbert, has suggested..._

"Here are your missives for the evening, Miss Kingsleigh," Chessur informs Alice importantly, dropping a thick stack of letters on her writing desk. She startles and, after a moment of hesitation, reaches cautiously for it.

"What on—" Alice had just finished sorting through her fish butler-delivered mail – yet _another_ invitation to a game of croquet from Sir Geoffrey – and had just been thinking that a bath might be a nice reward... and now _this_ appears out of nowhere!

"I informed Tarrant yesterday that I would not be delivering every piece of correspondence that came into his head to write as they were written. Deliveries are now to be made once per day, as would be acceptable for any _reasonable_ creature. As a former messenger, he really should know the burden multiple message carrying trips can have on an individual."

Alice smiles, recalling Chessur's disapproval of the traditional method of getting a chaperone's attention: a whistle. Tarrant had taken to blowing it with glee, until the Cat had smugly informed him that, due to Tarrant's abuse of that system, the Queen had agreed (under duress, Alice is sure) to give Chessur the option of only visiting them by pre-arranged appointment. Her smile drags downward as she remembers that this means that they can no longer spontaneously visit each other, either. She frowns at the Cat.

"If I had known, I might have had something prepared for you to bring him." Yes, it seems odd that Tarrant hadn't written her before this... Thackery could _surely_ have managed to deliver letters! Even if the route would take him past the kitchens... Although, perhaps not. The hare does seem a mite... easily distracted... Although, if they _had_ found an occasion to write to one another, Alice is confident that Thackery would have performed his delivery duties admirably. In all honesty, Thackery had been a _much_ more accommodating chaperone. The hare had never denied Alice and Tarrant time together. He hadn't required appointments, either. Which, she admits, is probably why Tarrant has suddenly begun writing to her. They'd been permitted to spend much more time in each other's company under Thackery's googley watch.

"No, you wouldn't. You are infinitely more practical than that man, and know that you will be seeing him later, and have no need to drown him under ink and parchment."

Alice shrugs, conceding the point. To her detriment, she _is_ more practical than Tarrant.

"I shall have to practice, then, won't I? Being less practical, I mean."

Chessur's eyes are phosphorescent among the candle light illuminating her chambers. "If you're going to be nonsensical, then I shall take my leave of you. I have no taste for absurdity this evening." He mists, then reforms suddenly, his body slamming back into existence with a whoosh of air. "Oh, I did have one question for you, Alice. What time do you usually rise in the morning?"

Blinking, Alice replies without thinking, "About one hour prior to breakfast being served, I suppose. But why—?"

Chessur does not wait for her question to be finished. "Thank you. I shall see you to-morrow morning, then." His grin is enormous.

"What could that have been about?" Alice wonders. Perhaps Tarrant had requested her presence in one of his letters? She picks the top on off of the pile, smiles at the top-hat insignia stamped on the outer portion, opens it, and reads:

 _Sweetest Alice:_

At this salutation, Alice's eyebrows climb up into her hairline. Had the Hatter... was this... were these all... _love_ _letters_? Her eyes devour the next few lines.

 _I believe there may be a borogrove in my rooms. If so, I shall have a time of routing him, I am sure. They are particularly fond of my socks. Perhaps it is due to them being striped?_

It is not a love letter, after all. She refuses to Examine why the lack of loving sentiments leaves a tang of disappointment on the back of her tongue, and instead focuses on reading.

 _Have you yet had occasion to go to the Queen and request Essence of Enderblat for your rooms? It is very effective at preventing such infestations from occurring. Had I not been distracted... yes, well. I bid you good evening once more._

 _Tarrant_

Well, that was informative. Highly entertained despite that niggle of disappointment lurking near her throat, Alice picks up the next missive. This time, she doesn't pause to admire the top hat she'd observed on the first letter. She opens it and eagerly reads:

 _Brave Champion Alice:_

 _The numbers on my clock keep changing. I've tucked myself under my bed with sheets of paper and my quill, but when I peer out, I can still see those hands moving, pointing to the new numbers._

 _I may have to fetch the butter._

 _Tarrant_

Alice laughs aloud in her delight. She picks up another.

 _Incorrigible Alice:_

 _You looked very lovely to-day._

 _Tarrant_

Sucking in a startled breath at the sudden eruption of Flutters in her stomach, Alice places one hand on her middle, forces herself to take a deep breath. It was just a simple compliment! She is not going to become a goose over one line on an otherwise blank page, is she?

Folding up that particular missive, Alice continues to read Tarrant's messages of odd facts and brilliant statements peppered with small compliments, until, at the very end of the pile, she finds the one informing her of the Locksmith's new plan to visit each of them in the morning. In her haze of delight over her letters, she almost forgets Chessur's announced intentions.

Almost.

"That Cat!" she snorts, setting the letter down. Suddenly the letters by her right hand feel that much less personal, that much less private, knowing that Chessur had likely read every single one, had derided Tarrant's choice of words, had...

Had possibly kept back some messages, due to their content. Everything she'd received was very innocent, but...no. Tarrant would not even write of such things as what she was suddenly imagining. The Courtship's Rules, after all, would not allow such a thing, and he's been frustratingly adherent to those Rules.

A steady droning by her left ear rouses Alice the next morning. She groans, rolls over, and hears the unmistakable crinkle of paper being crushed under the weight of a body. Sitting upright, hands flailing, she accidentally knocks the source of the drone out of the air and onto the quilt covering her bed: Mulinda.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaims, picking the stunned bird up in her hands. Mulinda shakes her head, ruffles her wings, and hums in what Alice believes to be a reassuring manner. The humming bird picks herself up off of Alice's hands, shakes her head once more, and then gestures with her long thin beak towards Alice's hair.

"Of course, of course! Let me just..." Looking down, she can see all of Tarrant's letters from the previous evening scattered about her bed; she'd taken them with her when she turned in, to re-read them at leisure. Gathering them up quickly, she ignores the knowing _hrm hrmm hrmmm!_ from Mulinda and stuffs them into her nightstand drawer.

"I'll just...grab my robe and brush, and we'll begin, then?"

"Not without me, I hope?"

Chessur phases into existence atop Alice's head, and if she had not been expecting him to make an appearance in such a way, then she might have had a reaction like Mulinda's. The female humming bird spies the Cat resting on top of Alice's golden girls. Then she stops, drops onto Alice's quilt, and starts twitching.

"Chessur!" Alice scolds, "You've scared her half to death!"

"Have I? A most excellent start to the morning!"

Swatting at him ineffectually (for he simply removed himself to her bed post before her hands could connect) Alice informed Chessur, "It is very rude of you to do such a thing to the dear bird, Chessur. What has she ever done to you to warrant such ill-treatment?"

"She's a bird."

Alice waits for more of an explanation, but it seems this is all the answer that she is going to get. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be?" she asks, thinking of all the grumbling he'd done the day before about she and Tarrant's disruption of his schedule. If he answers the way she suspects he answers...

"No, I am quite at my leisure." He slowly steals onto the bed as he says this, wriggling his rump. One large paw reaches towards the humming bird; his claws are sheathed but his grin is much too wide to make Alice think it is an innocent gesture.

Baring her teeth in what she's sure is her own fierce grin of triumph, Alice says, "Then you will not mind escorting me to see Tarrant as soon as Mulinda is done with her work here, will you?"

Chessur abruptly sits, rump wriggling and batting of birds forgotten. "Now I never said—"

"But if you are at your leisure, what could be the problem?" Alice counters immediately. "I'd like to see him, Chessur." Swallowing, she shoves the voice down that insists that _she should not have to beg to see her_ _ **friend!**_ and says softly, "Please?"

As Mulinda begins to make sounds of revival (a distressed hum that Alice doesn't believe is up to par with her usual cheerful thrum and a more purposeful-looking twitch of her wings) Chessur concedes to Alice's request.

"Oh, very well." Raising a paw for a lick, Chessur flicks one of his fuzzy ears and mumbles, "It matters not to me."

"Thank you, Chessur!" Alice beams. "Tarrant will be so pleased when I tell him you've made yourself available to us for the entire day!"

The Cat blanches (Alice is sure of this, even hidden as his skin is under fur and whiskers) and throatily warns, "One day, Champion..."

His threat is never completed, though, because Alice scoops Mulinda up into her palms and carries her into her adjoined dressing room. "I'll just get ready so we can be on our way! Maybe if we're lucky we can get to Tarrant's rooms before he goes down for breakfast!"

The hair Collection process goes much more smoothly for Alice than it had the day previously (she makes a point of requesting Mulinda be the one to visit her tomorrow as well, as she has a more delicate touch than her master—something the bird had seemed quite pleased to hear, even in Alice's tentative, unpracticed hum) and, flush with the success of the morning, she invites the bird to come walk with her to fetch Tarrant.

Her Intended, it seems, is already down to breakfast, as there is no answer at his door. So together they three—Alice, Chessur, and Mulinda—traipse, float and flutter down to the Dining Hall. Alice and Mulinda are hum-giggling over a joke the bird was telling that involved a cat, an owl, and a piggy-wig in the woods, when – as they round the corner – Alice is immediately greeted by Tarrant enthusiastically calling her name. He stands and clambers over to her, holding out his arm.

"I was hoping you'd be down in time for breakfast to-day. I saved you a seat next to mine—not that you are required to sit next to me, as there may be others that you wish to converse with this morning, but I had the thought that if you did come down, and you just so happened to desire my company, then I had best save you a seat, so that you could sit with me. If you want, that is. I will be happy to escort you to any seat in the hall that you may wish to eat at this morn."

"I came to see you, Hatter," she says, smiling. He twitches at the use of his title, and Alice curses herself soundly under her breath for calling him that once _again_. "What are they serving, Tarrant?" she hastily distracts him by asking, touching his hand with her gloved fingers.

Mulinda interrupts them, a polite hum of reminder that she is still present. Blushing, Alice apologizes (for she had quite forgotten the bird was present!) but the humming bird makes a nugatory noise that Alice translates to _don't worry about it_ , bobs her head, and then takes her leave.

"I take it the Collection went well this morning?"

Hope illuminates his face as he directs her across the hall and to a seat already set with tea and citrus flavored water. "Very well," she tells him as he pushes in her chair. "Mulinda believes she has all the hair she requires, but will be by to-morrow morning just to be certain."

"That is wonderful news!" Tarrant enthuses. Such wonderful news, apparently, that he is able to be gracious to Chessur after hearing it. "And a good morning to you, as well, Chessur," he finally acknowledges him.

"Tarrant," Chess sniffs, and then dissipates.

"Alice?" Tarrant asks, lifting a bushy brow in her direction. She suspects that Tarrant is actually disappointed that Chessur had not engaged him in their usual snarking battle of wits.

"I may have secured his agreement to escort us for the whole of the day," Alice admits, smiling only when Tarrant's tie flutters and his eyes start to glow. "He is still pouting about it."

Tarrant swallows, looks down at his plate, and blinks his eyes. "That is..." He turns and stares into her eyes. "What would you like to do to-day? We have no event scheduled."

"Why don't we go where our feet lead us?" she asks. Alice watches as Tarrant's eyes light further, waits in anticipation as he opens his mouth, for he looks as if he will certainly agree with her scheme—

"No, absolutely not!" Chessur reappears, right on the table. The courtier to Tarrant's left yelps (as the Cat's presence had interrupted his reach for a sausage). "I agreed to chaperone you to-day. I will not, however, follow you about as you aimlessly wander about Underland! I know what sort of trouble the both of you can get to, and I will have no part of it! Choose an activity, if you please." He disappears as quickly as he appeared.

"We could go to the kitchens," Tarrant suggests, and Alice makes a noise of agreement.

"Let me think about it," she says. She'd so hoped for an opportunity to go for a nice, long walk with Tarrant, as they had often done before this entire Courtship business began. During the walk, if they'd so happened to lose track of Chessur... and found themselves a soft patch of ground not covered in talkative flowers, then...

"Would you pass me the beans?" Alice asks the courtier to her right, a short, very thin woman named Marion. The dish is passed, and, as Alice is scooping the beans to her plate, Marion leans towards her, sharp nose twitching as if she were about to sneeze. "I see you entered the dining hall this morn with the Locksmith's apprentice," she observes.

"Yes, I did," Alice confirms. "She was by this morning to Collect my hair."

Marion sits back. "For true?" she asks, though her tone does not suggest she actually doubts the Champion's word. Without another attempt at even appearing to be interested in speaking to Alice once the information she'd wished to gather had been obtained, Marion immediately turns to her seatmate, cups her hand to their ear, and begins speaking to them in an indiscreet whisper.

Alice watches as the news passes from ear to ear, from courtier to courtier, all around the table. She knows the moment they each hear, for they unfailingly turn and stare at her and the Hatter, eyes large, expressions considering.

"Tarrant," she finally says, tugging gently on his jacket sleeve, "Why don't we take a turn about the gardens to-day? Chessur can hardly say we're dragging him about all of Underland if we do not leave the grounds of Marmoreal."

"That sounds very reasonable," he observes, chasing a giggling cherry tomato around his plate with his spoon. "Although, given that, I'm sure our chaperone will find a reason to object nonetheless."

"No objections whatsoever!" is the reply that, apparently sourceless, infuses the air.

Tarrant leans toward Alice and whispers conspiratorially, "He does enjoy maneuvering me into the wrong. One must keep this in mind when conducting business with cats."

"Ah... yes. I see what you mean." Why, that had been very devious of Tarrant to arrogantly state that Chessur would object... in order to in fact achieve the opposite result! "Thank you for your letters," she replies, ignoring the constant murmur of gossipy whispers around the breakfast table.

He beams. "I enjoyed writing to you very much, my dear. It was my pleasure."

She returns his grin and watches as he glances away, out over the crowd, still beaming. He is _happy_ she realizes. And by the straightness of his posture and the strong line of his shoulders, he is _proud_ , too. Alice feels a small stirring of... something around her heart at the sight of him. She has made him happy. And, for the first time, Alice is _glad_ that she had agreed to this Courtship.

Still...

Yes, _still_ , it _would_ be rather nice to get things back to the way they had been at that morning tea last week... or even that moment at the Berrying a few days ago. She resists a shiver and spears a bean on her fork. There's always the chance that Chessur will relax his guard today, perhaps lulled into a false sense of security by the familiar surroundings or lulled into a nap by the warm, gentle caress of sunshine...

She glances at the Hatter – damnation! _Tarrant!_ – out of the corner of her eye and imagines him, tie unfastened, shirt and vest gaping open as she runs her palms over his skin. Would he gasp? Moan? Would his breath dissolve into hot pants against her ear and neck? And his hands... (This time she cannot stop the shiver of heat that spirals through her at the thought.) Would his hands find their way to her bare knees again, and would they venture further under her skirt. Oh, what she would give to feel his rough, large, _warm_ hands gripping her bare hips, pulling her closer so that she might wrap her legs around his waist and...

"Alice?"

Startled, she blinks her way out of the daydream. "Yes?" her reply is husky.

The Hatter – _Tarrant,_ Alice! _Tarrant!_ – notices. The color of his eyes deepens as the bubbly happiness fades from his expression and the world seems to shrink down until it encompasses only the two of them. She watches helplessly as his lips part. _Those lips..._

"Are you not hungry this morning, my dear?"

Oh, she _is._ Most certainly. However...

Alice musters up a smile and returns her attention to her neglected plate... which seems to be taking her lack of attention very personally. "I'm fine," she replies, and lifts a forkful of quiche to her lips. The Ha—Tarrant watches her for a long, charged moment before turning back to his own meal.

She permits the suddenly uncomfortable silence between them as it allows her to consider her Plans for today. Yes, perhaps if they... and then if he... and something will have to be done about...

Despite all the care and thought Alice puts into the endeavor – and the forbidden hope that she will succeed – Alice's plot is unsuccessful; she'd hoped by having she and Tarrant ramble about the gardens she might be able to have at least a few moments alone with him, without the eyes of courtiers or the determined presence of Chessur interrupting them. Only on one occasion had she been able to find a spot of shrubbery that had looked like a good prospect; she'd grabbed Tarrant's hat, had thrown it, and had drug him behind it to press her lips to his. It had been a glorious moment! His arms had come around her and pulled her close. His lips had nibbled and rubbed themselves against her before – _finally_ – they parted and then she had shivered and leaned – impossibly – closer to him, hungry for his taste and the sound of his moan and the desperate clinching of his hands in the skirt of her dress and...

And then the sound of a throat being cleared had drawn their attention. Alice should have been mortified to find herself on the receiving end of Sir Geoffrey's stare (although, in all honesty, it had not been aimed at _her_ but at Tarrant). For a horrid moment, it had seemed as if the man might actually _say_ something... but no. In the presence of the Queen and her retinue, he had subsided. The Queen – smiling brightly – had commented on the whimsical weather and Alice had summoned up a smile.

"Carry on!" the Queen had commanded with a wave of her hand that had _seemed_ be directed at the courtiers (who had still been gaping, staring, and glaring at Alice and Tarrant) but Alice suspects the gesture had been meant to encompass her and Tarrant as well. The courtiers had followed their Queen's lead – as they always do – and had sashayed past. Alice had been forced to smile and nod, smile and nod, and by the time they had all disappeared around the bend, Chessur had returned, the Hat atop his head, Smugness itself.

She had been well and truly foiled... again.

This cannot go on! Alice fists her hands and _wishes_ for just _one chance –_ _ **one!**_ – to simply _be_ with him, to bathe in the heat and magic and the sensual power between them. She had planned, plotted, finagled, and conspired... all to no avail. Not only had she been unable to lure Tarrant away to... well, practice her wiles upon him (she tries to be honest with herself about this, even though, for some reason, the thought makes her feel a bit... well, maybe... no, no! She's only imagining things again! There is _nothing_ unsettling about taking the opportunity to have him in her arms, even for a moment), but her latest attempt to flout the Rules has laden the air between them with... something. Something that is not conducive to conversation. Sentences become words... and the words whittle down to nothing.

Blast it! They are friends! Yes, they are courting and yes, they are being supervised, but... They are friends! And she _misses_ him and she only wants...!

Body burning with unresolved desire, she finally accepts that today is not her day, Alice makes her excuses (careful to avoid looking too closely at what might be disappointment – or worse, resignation – in his expression), and takes her leave of Tarrant several hours earlier than she'd hoped to when securing Chessur's presence at the start of the day.

As she enters the castle, she marvels at the fact that she misses him already... and she _has been_ missing him for days, even when she has been in his company. Things hadn't been so bad with Thackery as their chaperone, but with Chessur...

She ducks into a windowed alcove and takes a seat on the bench. Her sigh echoes down the pristine corridor. The sound of it only serves to remind her of how very alone she is – how very alone she _feels._ Alice has not _felt_ alone since returning to Underland. But now... now she undoubtedly does.

She cannot have her friend. Nor can she take him as her lover.

Alice closes her eyes to shut away the tears she suspects are forming. She scolds herself – nothing good will come of thinking along these lines – and endeavors to clear her head. She takes a deep breath... releases it... but it still echoes in the corridor, sounding precisely like a lonely sigh.


	9. The Hat Workshop

He misses Alice. His friend, Alice. since Chessur had appointed himself their new chaperone, their Courtship had begun to adhere most stringently to The Rules. Until that unhappy happenstance, Tarrant had never really noticed how much he adores Alice's disregard for such irritating institutions. He had adored each and every attempt she had made to break those Rules... just as each and every attempt had tormented him. They are courting... he should not... nor should he want to...

But he does.

His self control has never been so tried and tested as it has been lately, under Chessur's all-seeing and all-judging gaze. He wants Alice touches and kisses and scents and grasping hands and hot breaths and...

"Fez!" he insists to the spinning-whirling-tumbling Want in his mind.

He shakes his head and focuses on safe thoughts. Welcome thoughts. She still finds himself thinking of her. His friend. Alice..

So when the very object of his thoughts knocks softly then opens and peers around the edge of his workshop door, her hair – blond and unbound – fluttering in the breeze from the corridor, Tarrant does not bar her entrance. He does not remind her of The Rules. He welcomes her in, invites her to choose any seat she likes (even those currently occupied by hand-stitched embroidery or silk-thread lace). He is gratified that she takes the seat closest to his current workstation, despite the fact that it requires moving a large bag of sheep's wool to do so.

He feels oddly nervous, seeing her again after her abrupt departure from the gardens that morning. She had not come down for lunch and although Chessur had _insisted_ (upon Tarrant sending him to check on her) that Alice had been sleeping in her rooms, Tarrant had worried... had been of two minds on the abrupt termination of their outing earlier.

He had been horridly disappointed: he had wanted her to stay, even if they would not have been able to indulge themselves in the activity she desires to investigate, and yet he had wanted her to go (he had not known how much longer he could keep her from noticing that his arms had ached to hold her again and his hands had curled into fists rather than reach for her). He had wanted to touch her, have her, and yet she does not feel... Or does she? Is it possible she loves him? So soon? The very thought steals away his breath and he takes a step back from her, admits to his weakness: Tarrant wants far too much from Alice to trust himself in her presence.

"How are you this evening, Alice? Would you care for something to eat? You missed lunch, you know," he inquires, resuming his task – far more happily than he had been a few minutes ago! – and examining the sun hat that continues to Argue with him over its choice of adornments and decorations.

Alice sighs. "No, thank you. I'm f. I'm... fine."

But she is _not_ fine. He looks at her – _really_ looks at her over the brim of the hat in his hands – and notes her exhaustion. Dark circles ring her eyes, yes, but that is not what causes him to label her as such. There seems to be an overlaying malaise about their person, and Tarrant Wonders. Perhaps the pace of their Courtship is too hectic for her. Perhaps she wishes for more time...?

More time. It would be both a blessing and a curse.

"Chessur was kind enough to look in on you this afternoon. Did you sleep well?" he dares, wondering if he might elicit the reason for her apparent fatigue by a bit of round-about questioning that – oddly enough – both the Queen and Thackery seem to employ more often than not.

She does not answer. Not immediately. Tarrant sets the hat down and takes the seat next to hers. It feels _wonderful_ to be sitting next to her again. And without that bloody menace of a cat screeching at them to observe Proper Courting Distances. In fact, it's so wonderful to be close enough to smell her that he does just that. He takes a deep breath, savors her Alice scent, and damns himself for being thankful that her troubles have brought her to his door unobserved and unchaperoned.

"I dreamt about you," she tells him, her voice so soft he wonders if he might have imagined those words. "I dreamt of being up on that hilltop again, with the batten and squimberries only..."

"Yes?" he forces himself to prompt. He is not sure he wants to hear what may have happened in her dream. He is not sure his heart will survive discovering that he had been a Nightmare. He much prefers to be her Dream. A good one – the best one he is capable of being!

She clears her throat and reaches for his hand. He forces himself not to pull away, not to clench his fingers into a tight fist, not to beg her to _keep touching him and not stop!_ "Do you know, for the longest time I only ever had the same dream? It wasn't until I came to Underland this last time that I began dreaming new dreams." Tarrant twitches towards her, just slightly. Alice apparently sees this, for she finally tells him, very softly, "In the new dream, we were on the hilltop together...you didn't push me away."

For a moment, he is not sure what to say, what to think. He needs clarification. "Was it... was I... Did I frighten you? In your... dream?"

"No," she confesses, finally meeting his gaze. "I woke up wanting..."

He closes his eyes, gently and regretfully withdraws his hand from beneath hers. "Alice, you know I cannot... I _must not_... touch you so familiarly."

"You won't, you mean."

He tilts his head to the side, acknowledging the point. He aches to tell her how very much he _wants_ to touch her, to taste her kiss, to bury his nose in her hair and just _breathe_ her essence into him... But he doesn't. He doesn't dare. Alice needs no more encouragement. She is bold enough already and her Muchness will be the death of his Good Intentions if he is not very careful!

"There is someone who _is_ permitted to touch you... whenever you like," he carefully temporizes. Yes, perhaps if he can direct Alice's attention to Other Avenues of pleasurable activities she might deign to Explore a bit, to Learn a bit on her own, to—

"Excuse me?" she replies, eyes wide: startled, shocked, and fearful. "Are you suggesting that I accept one of the offers I've received and take up with another—?"

_What?_

_WHAT?_

"What? No! No, no!" Tarrant squashes his initial reaction (to demand names and offenses NOW so that he may DEAL with those rotten, wretched, cheating guddlers who are attempting to STEAL her away from him!) and takes a calming breath. "No." He clears his throat. "I was referring to someone whose company you keep even when you are utterly alone, Alice. Someone who is with you in this room even now, should you require _her_ assistance."

Her eyes widen with understanding. She sits up straighter and gapes at him. Tarrant struggles very hard not to feel ashamed of himself for having suggested it. If he feels shame, he knows his face will reflect it, and it would not do at all to have Alice thinking there is anything shameful in such Avenues. It _would_ be a highly practical solution...

"You couldn't mean... _me_ , could you?"

With exaggerated gestures, Tarrant cranes his neck, inspecting the room around them, looking left and right and of course finding no one there with them, as he had expected (and if he _had_ found someone in the room with them, that would have meant that they'd been present while Alice confessed to _dreaming_ of him, of the intimacies she craves, which would mean that they would have been a witness to just what a passionate creature she is, and he doesn't like that Idea _at all!_ ) he whispers, "Whom else, Alice?"

Cheeks flaming, Alice replies in a low tone that makes his body hum and whistle – like the steam from a boiling kettle, "I've never... I..." She pauses briefly and he sees Muchness enter her hazel eyes. "I only want your touch."

Tarrant stares back, twitches toward her once more, stops, shakes himself. He can hear his own breathing, irregular and shallow and he is _this close to giving her precisely what she is asking for and—!_

"I'm... I'm very conflicted to hear that," he confides. Dear Underland, if only he _could_ accept her offer, _show_ her what pleasure it is she had tasted but not truly enjoyed. And at the thought of taste, he thinks of pears, of watching her devour the one he had offered her on the palm of his hand, of the juice she had licked from her own lips, of the seed she had swallowed...

But no. No! He had promised to give her a proper courtship. She deserves this. And he needs this. And, before he joins her in her bed, he wants to know if there is _any_ possibility of her feeling even a fraction of the love and caring and adoration and respect and _need_ he feels for her!

"Please...?" she asks, her hand reaching for his, stopping, and reaching again. "At least show me how to..."

He has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming _Yes!_ He has to close his eyes to conceal the fact that they have rolled back into his head. In a sudden rush of panic, he scrambles up from the bench and turns his back to her. "We cannae talk about this," he informs her gruffly. "Ye cannae ask me ta... 'Tis against the rules."

The very rules he had so ardently hated only moments before Alice's impromptu visit.

Tarrant returns to his work, fearing that she will drop the topic altogether, fearing that she will insist on continuing it, fearing that she will leave, fearing that she will linger, fearing that if he looks at her one moment longer he will...

"Show me?" Alice says and he has never heard anything more persuasive in his life. Before he can summon the strength to refuse her _again_ he feels her hand on his arm, the heat of her Alice-scented body which is _so very close..._

He pauses. The sun hat floats to the floor and the scissors in his hand clatter to the tabletop. He doesn't move. Doesn't trust himself to move and Alice, perhaps scenting his weakness (he suspects it smells like pear juice), insinuates herself between him and the work table.

"Please," her soft siren's call sings. She leans back, bracing herself on her hands, and – with a tiny leap – lifts to sit on the table's edge. Tarrant feels his blood heat and whirl and _stampede_ through his body at the sight of her so warm and inviting and he remembers how she tastes and he wants to know what her flavor is undiluted with squimberry juice or the scent of blueberries! Her knees press gently – hotly – against either side of his thighs and her skirts are an insubstantial bridge between. He stares at those skirts. He wants to reach out, to lift those skirts, to watch his own hands disappear beneath them – _Is she wearing stockings to-day? …likely not. –_ and learn the precise weave of the soft satin her bare skin is made of. The forbidden touch he'd dared at the Berrying had not been enough time – not _nearly_ enough time! – for him to examine the texture _thoroughly._ He wants to look up, into her eyes, as he does this. He wants to see the passion that makes her pant and her lips part. For him. Only for him. He wants to pull her hips to the edge of the table, wrap her bare legs around his hips, tear open the fastenings of his trousers and...!

But no. No!

 _Alice, help me_ , he begs despite the fact that he knows she will not. He needs her to save him from this Need that vibrates just beneath his skin, that tenses his body and makes his hands shake. He needs to look into her eyes and feel grounded by her strength, her Alice-ness... but he knows if he dares do that – if he dares to look into her hopeful, hot gaze – he will Give In.

Giving In would be Bad, he tells himself firmly, although, at that moment, he cannot recall precisely _why_ it would be bad.

"No one has to know..." she whispers, reaching for his arm again, trailing her fingertips down his jacket sleeve to the cuff. "I promise..."

 _Yes! Promise!_ He had made Alice a Promise to court her properly and as she deserves to be courted!

He hears himself say roughly, "As I have promised."

He backs away slowly from her. It _pains_ him.

His hands fisting and breath ragged, Tarrant surrenders, begs, pleads, confesses, "I need ye... ta gae nauw, Alice... _please_."

Alice huffs, and he realizes with that one exhalation how close he had been to giving in. If she but dares to reach for him again, he will... he will... He will not be able to deny her. He will give her whatever she wants. He will spend himself inside her and he fears he will not be gentle and she will hate him for it and—

She shoves herself off of the table and storms toward the door. The wind that bellows past his nose carries her thundery scent, her high fury... There is no finer, no more varied scent in all the world as an Alice.

"You will show me soon, Tarrant," she says, tears of frustration and perhaps even wounded pride in her eyes. Despite that, her voice carries, _issues_ another Promise between them.

He watches her go and when the door slams shut behind her, he lets out the breath he'd been holding.

"Well done, Tarrant," a smooth, cultured drawl sounds at his ear.

He shakes his head, trying to dislodge it and discourage it as one would an overly curious fly. "Away wi' ye, Chessur. Ge' away."

And, miracle of miracles, he does. Tarrant is left alone with his breath panting, body aching, mind whirling... and Alice's scent clinging to him unrelentingly. He places a hand on his own chest, as if that will calm the tumult his body becomes in her presence.

Dear Underland... _how_ is he going to deny her the _next_ time she demands his touch? How is he going to deny himself?

At this point, he no longer wishes to do either.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

She had been so close! So close!

Alice very nearly screams in frustration. Damnation, he had been There, teetering on the same edge that she had been; he had leaned in. His hands had fluttered toward her knees... and then...

And then!

_You should have kept your promises to yourself._

Yes, she should have. A kiss probably would have tipped the scales quite nicely. Why she hadn't done it, even though it had crossed her mind, is a thought she is not sure she can fully contemplate right now.

"Some Champion _you_ are!"

Alice startles at the sound of a familiar voice. She'd come outside for a breath of fresh air after that... that... _Don_ ' _t think about it, Alice!_ She hadn't thought anyone had followed her, but...

"Mally?" she says, turning and spotting the dormouse glaring at her from the branch of a tree overhead. The Dormouse swings down from that high perch onto a lower branch, and again, until their faces are level with one another.

"Why are you torturing the poor 'Atter when he's only tryin' his best to do right by you?"

"Torturing...? I've done no such thing!"

"Oh, haven't you? What was that just now? In the haberdashery, eh?"

"You...! You were spying on us?"

"Spy? That's what _cats_ do. _I_ was enjoying a nice nap on a sunny window sill," Mally informs her imperiously. Then, mistaking Alice's askance for disbelief, snaps, "What? You think cats are the only ones who like a square of sunshine after teatime?"

"I... I..."

"Are torturing the 'Atter," Mally insists for a second time. "For shame, telling him you'd had a dream about him that wasn't a nightmare... Lettin' him _want_ to be part of one o' your Good Dreams...!"

"What? Wait! How do you know what was said?"

Mally gives her a knowing smirk. "Glass is a mite thinner than brick, you know!"

Alice listens to herself sputter for a moment before she has the presence of mind to clamp her mouth shut. Oh, the humiliation! Mally _had_ heard them, had _seen_ her sit on that table with her knees wide and _ask_ him to...!

"Oh, lord..."

"Which one?" Mally asks with renewed curiosity and it takes Alice a moment to realize Mally believes Alice had uttered the phrase with a particular White Court Lord in mind. "Not that I think that's a good idea, mind you," she continues over Alice's shocked silence. "You going to another fellow for a bit o' whisper an' giggle just because the 'Atter won't..."

"I'm not interested in any lord," she replies tartly, offended at the very thought that she would welcome some anonymous man's touch just because her body aches for... "I want..."

"Yeah, I can see that. It was pretty obvious exactly what you wanted," Mally observes dryly.

Alice feels her face heat until she's sure it'll be hours before the red flush of mortification fades enough for her to show her face in the castle. Why _this_ incident in particular affects her in such a manner, when she herself had saucily informed the Royal Contingent of Berry Pickers _Of course I want him_ , she doesn't know, cannot contemplate. Perhaps it is because this time, he had completely denied her advances. "I suppose it was," she chokes out.

"But that don't give you the right to accost the one man who's trying to... Alice? Alice?"

Words are beyond her. Or, more precisely, all the words Alice would have said are on the other side of the blockage in her throat that is steadily moving downward, its crushing pressure compacting her chest painfully. She shakes her head and grits her teeth against the sob that – despite the blockage – is somehow squeezing through.

"Aw, Alice, com'on now and sit down," Mally coaxes her, pitter-pattering down the tree trunk and patting it invitingly. And because staying _here_ and crying like an over-emotional heroine of a ridiculous romance novel in front of Mally is better than stumbling upon the Queen's court and commencing with the expression of her misery, Alice accepts.

"Now, now," Mally comforts her, patting her ear lobe through her hair. "We've all got needs. You're not embarrassed about the Urges, are you?"

"Maybe I am..." Yes, she's sure she'll well and truly embarrassed about that later. She'd most definitely rather think about _that_ than what she'd just done to Tarrant, her friend – her _best_ friend and, yes, the man who wants the chance to open his heart to her before he gives her himself.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Alice. It's natural. It's..."

"Despicable. What I tried to... You're right. The Hatter deserved so much better from me than... than..."

Mally pats her ear again. "Now, now. The important thing is you won't be doing it again, right?"

Alice shudders. "I don't know if I can control myself around him. I just... just..."

"Gotta learn to take care of business on your own," Mally asserts.

"I... _What?_ Take care of... _what?_ "

"Your _business_ ," she repeats rather loudly.

"I could never...!"

The dormouse scoffs, "What's the problem? You'got two good hands, doncha? Of course you can!"

Alice gapes at her for a long moment, during which Mally muses in a (thankfully!) softer and more discreet tone, "And, actually, an enterprising lady only needs one..."

"One...?" Alice asks, almost afraid of the answers.

"Hand! Ain't you been paying attention?"

"I have. I... suppose I'm still... digesting it."

"Well, digest and digress the next time the Urge strikes." Mally gives her a final nod. "You'll be glad you did. So will the 'Atter. Trust me." And with that final sagely declaration, Mally slides down Alice's arm and heads back to the castle. Maybe looking for another sun-warmed window sill to spy on people from.

Still, despite the bitter thought, Alice cannot keep her thoughts away from her _own_. She shifts uncomfortably when she remembers the threat she'd delivered before she'd left. She wonders if Tarrant will be able to forgive her for that... _and_ her blatant attempt at manipulating him into...

 _Dear Underland, had she just tried to use his body – had she just tried to do what he_ ' _d accused her of – as if he were nothing more than a means to satisfying her body_ ' _s..._ _ **urges?**_

She can think of no more despicable actions. She has failed him, she realizes. He had asked her for four weeks. She had agreed to that. And she had very nearly taken that away from him. Again!

Very nearly. It would have been so easy to do. All she would have had to do was kiss him and his intentions would have crumbled... But she _hadn_ ' _t_ kissed him, had she? Victory had been within her grasp and yet she had let it slip away.

Why?

Alice considers her actions in the hat workshop. She considers the fact that she had considered kissing him. Had considered it but had _not_ done it. A kiss would have seduced him, but she does not want him seduced. She wants him willing. And, as much as it pains her to admit it, Mally is right. She must give Tarrant this Courtship. This is important to _him._ And if she really cares for him at all, she will stop being selfish. Slurvish.

_Be the woman Tarrant needs you to be, Alice._

Even if that means _investigating_ Mally's suggestions.

Her face burns with shame at the thought of... servicing herself. But if it means being able to control herself around Tarrant, if it means she'll be able to give him the time he needs, then it is not an indulgence on her part, but a necessity. For herself, she might never have found the gumption to... to...

But for Tarrant. Yes, she will _try._ And she _will_ be better. She will do right by _him._

She _will._


	10. The Hedgehog Chase

"Thank you, _all_ , for attending to-day's event!" the Queen announces to the milling crowd of Courting couples.

Tarrant squints, counts them, and is _sure_ their numbers have grown since the Berrying. Yes, he's quite positive that there is now an _alarming_ number of pairs engaged in courting. He doesn't doubt that he knows the reason for it: they are all in utter disbelief that he and Alice have managed to not only receive their key, but they had also convinced the Locksmiths to prepare their Door. These rubber necks simply want an excuse to observe What Happens Next between he and Alice. Despite (or because of!) the fact that it is none of their business! Alice is _his business._

He glances toward her and, as has become usual for him, feels such an overwhelming mosh of conflicting emotions that he barely knows what to feel at all, what to think, what to do!

Just as he'd opened his door this morning and been informed (in a rather chuffed hum) by the Locksmith that their Lock had been completed and installed on the fourth floor of the round tower in the west wing of the castle, Chessur had shown up, had frightened the poor bird away before Tarrant could thank him properly and – smiling – had delivered the first piece of correspondence Alice has sent him since their Courtship began.

Perhaps foolishly, he had _hoped_ she would demand – impatiently! – to know when their Lock would be ready and then, contritely, ask to go for a stroll together. (Yes, yes, Chessur would also have to be there for their walk, but the point would have been that Alice would have requested as _few_ people present as possible, implying that she would like to spend more time with _him._ ) He had dared to imagine – for an instant – that she might even remind him of how much she hates The Rules. (And although it is nearly impossible to "lose" Chessur, he would be glad to make a valiant attempt at it!)

For a moment, with the still-sealed envelope in his hands, Tarrant had experienced something of an epiphany: it is impossible for him to force himself to stay away from Alice. She wants him – _him! –_ and he had marveled at that miracle. He must not... _do_ _ **all**_ she asks him for, but, certainly, he can find other ways to please her, pleasure her!

Standing there, staring at her letter, he had been suddenly and painfully reminded of the _invitations_ Alice had spoken of. No doubt that lick-spittle toadie _Sir_ Geoffrey has not been idle recently! No doubt _he_ has come up with... creative ways to help satisfy Alice's curiosity on the things which are against The Rules!

Tarrant realizes with a disturbing start that the fact that he and Alice are courting has made him complacent. A dangerous state to be in considering how very Want-able Alice is!

With the expectation of reading a demand for an update on their Lock and, perhaps, an invitation to take a long stroll after dinner... to which he might suggest having tea in the gardens before journeying to the fourth floor of the castle's west wing... Tarrant had opened the letter.

He had read it.

And then he had read it again, sure that he must have missed _something._

But he hadn't. There had, indeed, been _no_ mention of the Locks at all. No request for a quiet stroll. Nothing of that sort at all.

Alice had accepted, on their behalf, an invitation to yet another Courting event. Tarrant had clung to hope, still. Perhaps he _would_ find a way to distract Chessur. (With his top hat, perhaps?) He might find a private moment with Alice to whisper in her ear of what _he_ had dreamed last night. As per The Rules, his lips may not touch her, but those Rules had not outlawed his breath from caressing her cheek or the heat from his body brushing her skin or the scent of his Want making her eyes darken with untested passion...

But now... _now!_ Tarrant glares at the attendees – Easily two dozen couples! Are the courtiers so desperate for gossip and news of _his and Alice_ ' _s_ Courtship that they willingly court someone from _outside_ the Royal Sphere of Influence? Shocking! – and knows that with a crowd the size of this one (including their chaperones!) he will _not_ be able to find a private moment with Alice.

That is for the best.

It does _not_ feel like it, however.

"It pleases me greatly," the Queen continues, "that so many of you have chosen to take a chance on love. Your bravery and generosity toward each other warms my heart—" At this point, several courtiers shift guiltily. Yes, Tarrant is very much aware that they do not wish to pair off indefinitely with their current partner. They are here to be _involved_ , to be _kept in the loop_ , and to _keep an eye on_ the True Object of their affections. Tarrant has come to suspect – over the years of being in the White Queen's service – that courtiers would _never_ seek to court their True Intended without having exhausted all other eligible potential partners first. Success, they likely believe, comes from not only practice but also from the practice of attempting to elicit sweet jealousy from the One they want. Ridiculous. Shameful. Slurvish! Tarrant would never play with Alice in such a way!

"—Your kind regard for one another is beautiful to see," the Queen praises them, ignoring the weight of Guilt in the air, "and it has inspired me to offer Marmoreal's first Hedgehog Chase."

The applause for this is great, despite the fact that no one knows what a Hedgehog Chase is or what benefits they might reap from it.

"One of our very brave garden hedgehogs has volunteered," the Queen explains, "to carry on a ribbon around her neck a Royal Favor."

 _Now_ the murmurings pick up. Tarrant can taste Excitement and Greed saturate the air.

"As you know, Royal Favors are rare. Almost as rare as True Love." At this, the Queen's dark gaze darts in his and Alice's general direction. He helplessly follows the line of her glance and can't help but feel overwhelmed with love (Alice is standing beside him, looking _so_ lovely in her blue dress and the sun hat he had made for her once he'd resigned himself to attending this event _rather than_ unlocking their Doors and Speaking From the Bottom of His Heart) and he is breathless with pride (she has chosen _him!_ ) and the niggling suspicion that Alice is Delaying the opening of those Doors is pushed to the back of his already cluttered mind.

"There are many hedgehogs in the gardens," the Queen reminds everyone. Tarrant smirks at the rather un-courtier-esque fidgeting going on amongst their ranks; yes, they all appear quite ready to Hop To It! "And I ask that you be gentle with them! We'll have no rough housing outside the house!"

Tarrant giggles at the joke. The Queen can be quite witty at times!

"And should you both find and manage to convince the hedgehog carrying my favor to release it to you, I shall – if it is within my power to do so – grant you and your partner that which I believe you need most in the world."

The Queen politely ignores all the wiggling and stamping and hand-fluttering going on in the crowd and smiles beatifically. Tarrant suspects she is merely drawing out the suspense, relishing the gentle torture she is inflicting on the lot of them. Yes, he's quite happy the crown is on _her_ head now. _This_ sort of tormenting of the Royal Court he finds quite entertaining, himself!

"Well, that is all! Off you go!" And indeed they do. Tarrant wraps an arm carefully around Alice as they are jostled by greedy favor-seekers off on their treasure hunt.

"Barbarians," Chessur disdains and Tarrant agrees with him, straightening up reluctantly. Still, it had been nice to hold Alice closer than is generally permissible. If only for a moment.

"Alice, Hatta," the Queen sighs, waving them forward. "If I might say – before you begin your search for our brave, little hedgehog – it is so wonderful to see that your Courting is progressing so swiftly!"

"Is it?" Alice asks.

Perhaps Tarrant imagines the note of alarm in her voice. Perhaps. But he doesn't want to take the chance that it's _not_ a figment of his paranoia. "Thank you, Your Majesty. And thank you for to-day's event. It's very... amusing," he decides, glancing at the blurs of white moving through the orchard, racing, crashing into each other, crawling on hands and knees and – occasionally – tripping over one another with much comical flailing of limbs.

The Queen's gaze turns a devious shade of Gleaming Dark. "It is, isn't it? We're fortunate the hedgehogs are _more_ than a match for them!"

Indeed, at precisely that moment, a courtier shrieks with affront, "It _licked my_ _ **hand!**_ "

Alice snorts.

" _You found it?_ "

" _Did it give you the Favor?_ "

Tarrant watches, utterly entertained, as Alice shakes her head, rolling her eyes.

"Perhaps we ought to begin our search?" he inquires softly and with no small amount of reluctance.

Alice smirks. "You mean, we ought to start to _look_ as though we're searching."

Tarrant frowns in thought. "No, no, I believe I said precisely what I meant, Alice." He then pauses, lowers his voice and leans down a bit to whisper back, "What did _you_ mean?"

"Well" is Alice's hushed reply. "If you were a hedgehog hiding from courtiers with _almost_ no shame at all in the face of their greed, where would _you_ hide?" And then Alice very deliberately smiles at the Queen and drops her gaze to the bottom of the Queen's voluminous skirt.

The White Queen laughs and Tarrant looks down just in time to see a small, brown nose and pair of black, beady eyes peep out from beneath the hem of the Queen's elaborate dress.

Alice crouches down and addresses the creature. "Hello. Have we met before?"

The hedgehog dares to reveal a bit more of itself and Tarrant sees the white, silk package tied beneath its chin on a white ribbon around its bristly neck.

It nods.

Alice smiles. "I asked you for hat directions once?"

This time, the nod is more vigorous.

"You're looking well."

The hedgehog trills a compliment in reply.

"To whom would you like to give the Queen's Favor?" Alice asks. "If you like, we could carry you around the gardens until you see them. Perhaps we could find a basket to use?"

The hedgehog shakes its head.

And then it points to Tarrant and Alice.

Alice is too shocked to reply, apparently. Tarrant himself blinks once before finding his own voice, "I... beg your pardon?"

The hedgehog points to its silk-wrapped burden and then to Tarrant and Alice. _Again._

"I believe our intrepid hedgehog has made herself quite clear."

Alice gapes – which Tarrant has noticed she seems very _fond_ of doing! – and protests (again, another activity she seems to partake in quite a lot!), "But it's far too soon to end the game!"

"It is," the Queen declares.

The hedgehog motions for Tarrant to untie the ribbon. "Chafes a bit?" he asks it.

The hedgehog wearily nods. He kneels beside Alice and nimbly unknots the bow. Free of its obligations, the little creature heaves a sigh of relief and then disappears back beneath the Queen's skirts. For a nap, perhaps.

Grinning, Tarrant stands and offers Alice his arm, which she takes and climbs to her feet as well.

"Now, as it wouldn't be... _sporting_ to tell them the game is over so soon, perhaps you both will take a walk? Look under some bushes? Consult a few trees?" the Queen suggests in a wily tone.

Alice chuckles and Tarrant giggles. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

Tarrant offers the Royal Favor to Alice and sets it in the palm of her gloved hand. The favor is white and her gloves are white and thus her fingers are as good a hiding place as any. Well, almost any.

He guides Alice onto the path to begin their fictional search of the Queen's Favor (which had already been bestowed upon them) and, after a few steps, notices that although Chessur is hovering just behind them, he has not made one peep about observing proper distance between themselves.

That is because Alice _is_ the proper distance between them.

How... strange and... unexpected and... disappointing.

"Alice?" he asks softly. Of course Chessur – with his Cat's ears – will be able to hear All, but he'd rather not share this with any courtiers.

"Yes?" She looks up at him and smiles warmly. He ought to feel charmed by that smile, he knows. But he remembers how they had parted yesterday, how she had stormed from his shop. She had been furious and passionate and a Force of Alice-ness. To-day... all of that is Missing.

"Are you... Is everything... well?" he, rather pathetically, settles for saying.

"Yes, of course. Everything is as it should be."

 _As it should be..._ He rolls that phrase over in his mind as a harried-looking courtier dashes across the path just in front of them, in hot pursuit of a ribbon-less hedgehog. The man's Intended staggers after him, bumping into Tarrant, who automatically braces himself and puts his arms around Alice once again.

The woman gives him a slight sneer before she's off.

Luckily, due to the sun hat and Tarrant's body blocking her view, Alice had not seen that Look.

But suppose she already has? At the Berrying, perhaps? Or over dinner? Maybe in the corridors? Does Alice realize that Tarrant is scorned for his temerity to court her?

 _Everything is as it should be._

The thought worries him. Everything is as it should be... according to whom?

He glances after another frantic courtier crashing through the orchard and averts his gaze. He does not want to think about the possibility that Alice is... rethinking her wanting of him. He does not want to imagine what he would do if these petty, pompous fools have actually managed to convince her that he is not... a good match for The Alice, Champion of Underland.

He takes a deep breath, offers Alice his steady arm and a shaky smile. They commence with their game of _pretending_ to look for the Royal Favor. They speak to the hedgehogs they find. They crawl under bushes and shrubbery.

Not once does Chessur feel the need to chastise them for improper conduct.

Because not once does Alice try to break The Rules.

And when the courtiers are starting to look quite red in the face Alice declares it's time to announce the end of the game. She opens the tiny white pouch, produces a crystal bell, and rings it. The sound of its pure, clear tone is enough to halt the search. Several hedgehogs pop out from behind trees and under bushes to trill their thanks. And then the Queen floats over to them and expresses her delight. Even the courtiers manage to look pleased that their Champion has turned out to be the victor once again.

It's a good show, Tarrant notices. A pleasant fiction.

And yet, when he glances down at Alice's hand on his arm, at her still fingers and Proper Distance, he wonders...

She has received Other Offers. _Invitations..._

Tarrant had refused her the day before...

The courtiers openly sneer at him for daring to court their Champion...

Alice had never seemed to pay them and their over-inflated egos much mind, but... is it possible she...?

Tarrant returns her smile automatically. It's a nice smile, so there is no reason _not_ to exchange one of his own for it. But it is not the smile he would _rather_ have. It is not the knowing smile she'd given him on the ladder in the library. It is not the joyous smile she had given him when he'd twirled her around the room after the appearance of their key. It is not the satisfied smile she had given him after she had fed him blueberries and kissed him and pressed herself closer to him and...!

Alice's hand is still on his arm. He focuses on that fact. She still wants him!

He tells himself _that_ is also fact and not a pleasant fiction.


	11. Jealousy and Priorities

"Lady Alice!"

Alice suppresses a sigh and pauses in the corridor. She'd been hoping to have a little time to herself today. To think about... Mally's suggestion. Being so near the Hatter all afternoon during the Hedgehog Chase and yet _not_ trying to persuade him to flout the Rules of Courtship had been... trying.

And she is _trying._ So, really, how could she have expected her new resolve to be _easy_ maintain?

Still, the scent of him – his very presence – had left her wanting... wanting him. But Alice knows she cannot have him – not yet! – and she _must not_ tempt him!

 _Be strong, Alice. Didn_ ' _t you once slay a Jabberwocky?_

Why, yes, she had. Resisting her... _urges_ should be easier than pouring a cup of tea by comparison.

They aren't.

With dinner finished and a hot bath waiting for her in her rooms there is _no reason_ for her to _not_ think about the Hatter – Damn it all! _Tarrant! –_ and his hands undressing her as she prepares for her bath, his lips kissing her neck and shoulders as he gently piles her hair atop her head and pins it in place with deft flicks of his fingers (fingers which had so carefully and nimbly freed the ribbon from around the hedgehog's neck only a few hours ago), his voice – low and trembling with desire – as he whispers to her...

"Lady Alice?"

With a slight shake of her head, Alice forces herself to _focus._ If she can just get rid of—

"Oh, Sir Geoffrey, I apologize. I feel a little..." Hot, impatient, aching. "Distracted this evening."

"That is perfectly understandable, my lady," the man replies with a friendly smile. "Congratulations on winning the Queen's Favor."

"Thank you," she manages to cough out, feeling inexplicably guilty about it. The Queen _had_ said that the hedgehog would give the Favor to whomever she wished, so just because Alice had deduced her hiding place hadn't _necessarily_ meant that she would receive it... so it hadn't been cheating. Not _really._

"I imagine you're quite caught up in what it will be, just as everyone else is."

Alice blinks. "Are what?"

"Are caught up in speculation, of course! We're all _dying_ to know what it is the Queen thinks you require more than anything in the world!"

Honestly, Alice hadn't given it a single thought. That _bath,_ on the other hand... And, speaking of hands...

She glances down at her own and wonders... _can_ she do what she's contemplating? _Can_ she give herself pleasure and relieve the Hatter – Argh! **Tarrant** , Alice! Call him by his given name! – of the unfair expectations she has been placing on him?

"There's no need to be bashful, Lady Alice," Geoffrey says, startling her. She had completely forgotten the man was still standing there!

Alice clears her throat. Smiles. Begins mentally composing her excuse to leave.

Perhaps sensing this, the courtier hurries to say, "I was wondering if you might join us for an afternoon event to-morrow?"

"Another Courting event?" she asks.

"Well, Lady Philomena is arranging it, rather than the Queen..."

"Ah," Alice says, not because she really understands the significance but because he seems to be expecting some sort of response.

"Will you be attending?"

"I..."

"No, she won't," a third person interjects. Alice turns at the sound of the Hatter's voice and stares as he storms down the hall toward them. His eyes flash yellow as he approaches, entrancing Alice with his rage and grace and...

 _What must that taste like?_

Would she taste the hint of charcoal on his tongue, perhaps? Does his anger burn hot enough to scorch him from the inside out?

She shivers.

"Lady Alice and I have an appointment to-morrow," the Hatter continues, stopping beside Alice, positioning himself between her and Sir Geoffrey. "We've a Lock and a pair of Rooms that require our attention." And then he grins. It is sharp and full of teeth and his possessive tone and confrontational stance finally register in her brain and...

Before Sir Geoffrey can open his mouth and guarantee himself a very personal introduction with the Hatter's Madness, Alice interjects, "I _beg_ your pardon but I was unaware that we had made plans, Mister Hightopp."

For a moment, no one moves.

And then the Hatter jerks a step back and pivots sharply to face Alice just as Sir Geoffrey's shoulders straighten and his chest puffs up with self-importance.

"Alice...?" the Hatter inquires softly, all traces of his temper gone. Vanished. Chased away by what looks like fear in his yellow-green eyes. "The Locksmith came by this morning. The Lock is ready; installed and—"

"It can wait, can't it?" she asks without really asking at all. Damn him for treating her like she _belongs_ to him. Like her _preferences_ must, naturally, be the same as his. Like she _wants_ this Courtship the same way he does. Damn it all, she has come to expect more consideration from him! After his generosity in the library, she had thought...!

Well, she must have thought... wrong.

"I shall consult my schedule and let you know if I am free to-morrow," she informs them both. "Sir Geoffrey, Mister Hightopp, have a pleasant evening."

She storms away, for once glad that she had dressed in a suitable gown for dinner. Gowns are quite necessary for things like dramatic marching and expressive corner-turning and such. Her indulgence in her temper does not soothe her, though. It rankles her that she had actually – and automatically – bid the two of them a good evening when she is sure that her _own_ has been irreparably ruined.

Yes, there will be a bath, but there will be no imagined Hatter kisses or Hatter hands or Hatter scents, she decides. She is far too angry to still Want him!

Well, she's too angry to want him Right Now.

Probably.

 _Oh, bugger it_ , Alice thinks, slamming into her room and startling the attending fish butler who swiftly excuses himself, forgetting to add the lavender bath salts on his tray to the steaming water in the tub. Alice doesn't bother to call him back. With jerky motions, she unlaces her dress and although she intends to keep her mind off of _him_ , _he_ wanders into it uninvited.

Despite her frustration and disappointment, she can't _not_ imagine him there, easing the garment from her shoulders, breathing softly against her neck.

Damnation, she _still_ wants him.

"Very well then," she murmurs. "You can stay."

She imagines his lips press against her jaw in the shape of a smile.

"But I won't let you dictate my schedule, Hatter."

His hands – imaginary though they are – pull her shrift up her body slowly, carefully, seductively.

"Go ahead and try to persuade me to change my mind. I won't," she warns the figment of her imagination.

She helps him pin her hair up, accepts his hand as she climbs into the tub then pulls it beneath the water. "Try," she whispers, imagining it is not her hand that slides from her knee, up the inside of her thigh, to the flesh between her legs. She has never touched herself here before and it feels strange to her.

"Try," she reminds herself, investigating this place on and in her body that she has been taught does not belong to her: it belongs to her husband, whoever that man will one day be. But she does not need a husband. This is _her body._ She will touch herself if that is what she wants.

She tries.

She closes her eyes, imagines herself on that hilltop again.

And, when the bathwater is cool and her hair still not washed and her attempts at pleasing herself utterly unpalatable to contemplate continuing, Alice sighs out a frustrated breath and glares at the ceiling.

Damn him for making her Want.

Damn him for ruining her for her own touch.

Damn him for turning into such a... a... Male!

Her fury builds, fuels her limbs and intentions. She gives up on any sort of bodily pleasure tonight. She washes her hair, dries herself off, and with a dressing gown wrapped around her shoulders, Alice seats herself at her writing desk.

She composes two notes.

She asks the Hatter if he will be free the day _after_ tomorrow to discuss when they might address the next phase of their Courtship.

And then she writes Sir Geoffrey and tells him she'll see him at Lady Philomena's event tomorrow afternoon.

She sends them off with a frog footman – Chessur's approval be damned! – and then sinks down onto her bed and stares at her hands.

She does not want to spend tomorrow away from the Hatter. But she cannot allow him to control her, either. She does not need a man in her life dictating what she may and may not do and when she will do it!

Although... she silently fears that her failure to pleasure herself is evidence that she _does_ need him. She needs him very much. Too much.

A day apart will benefit them both, she tells herself. She needs time to think, to come to her senses, to _not_ need him.

Yes, the day after tomorrow, they will sort this out. She will explain why she will not tolerate the sort of behavior he had displayed this evening with Sir Geoffrey. The Hatter will understand. He will apologize. Things will be normal again.

Yes, everything will be fine. It will be as it should be.

 

*~*~*~

"Good show, Tarrant. And here I was _sure_ you wouldn't be able to surpass your previously recorded high for idiocy," Chessur purrs, materializing in the corridor as Tarrant watches his Intended flounce off. _Sir_ Geoffrey had looked as if he might go after her, but a growl and a raised hand pressed to the man's chest had resulted in his very satisfyingly hasty retreat.

Unfortunately, the same technique does _not_ work on Evaporating Cats.

He considers barking at Chessur to _go away_ but, honestly, he does not trust himself to speak. Even Dog Speak. Snarling, he turns on his heel and marches back to his own room. He does not go to his workshop despite the delayed orders he ought to be completing. He goes to his apartment in the castle, where he knows Chessur will give him privacy, and curses himself very loudly and at length.

Why hadn't he listened to Alice when – on that hilltop, flushed with passion and panting with Want – she had asked about elopement? Why hadn't he agreed to that? If he had, they would be wed now and he would have spent the last nearly-two weeks in her bed with her arms around him and her lips clinging to his – and when they _weren't_ clinging to his, perhaps he might have inspired her to call out his name, his Given Name! – and he would have filled his lungs with her scent as he filled her body with his aching sex and she would have wrapped her legs around his hips and asked for More. Harder. Faster. _Please!_

He remembers the expression of bliss on her face as she had bitten into her very first squimberry. He recalls the feel of her body beneath his as he'd pressed her to the blueberry-scattered ground. Her thigh had been so warm and smooth and _perfect_ beneath his hand and his hips had fit _just so_ against hers and he'd _known_ from that moment onward that she is meant to be his! Will be his!

He imagines her hair dark with sweat at her temples, her eyes closed in that shocking bliss of a sensation so unexpectedly Wonderful it is nearly painful to experience, her hands in his hair pulling him closer, her lips parting and her tongue invading his mouth as he moves inside her...

"I want you," she might say.

Or perhaps, "I need you."

Dare he hope: "I love you... _Tarrant._ "

"Ahhh!" he gasps, his chest heaving and breaths searing his throat with the speed at which they are expelled and then drawn. He frowns, shakes his head, looks down and...

No. No, he had not just... just...

But he had. Tarrant cannot ignore the fact that his trousers are very much open and his sex is in his hand – his hand which is very, very messy with the evidence of his release.

Oh, Underland. Dearly and utterly mad Underland... He _had_ just...

Tarrant fairly races into the washroom to rinse off the evidence that he had... he had...

He had lost control. Completely. The Madness had taken him, shoved him into a heady fantasy of past and possibility. He had not even realized that he'd torn through the buttons of his trousers and had touched himself until...

He shudders. He had imagined spending himself inside Alice. He had been completely within his own mind. Had Chessur tried to interrupt him? What would have happened if Alice had decided that she'd like to say a few more things to him and had knocked on his door, entered when she hadn't been told to go away? Would he have woken from the Madness then? Or would it have already been too late? Or, most frightening of all, would the Madness have blurred reality so badly that he would have reached for her, pushed her to the floor, and taken her like the ravening beast he had so feared becoming that day in the orchard when he'd witnessed her consumption of that damned pear.

 _Why_ had he offered her that blasted fruit? _**Why?**_

He washes himself thoroughly. His hands are not exempt from the treatment, either. He rolls up his sleeves with his soapy hands and scrubs at his arms, his elbows...

It's not enough, but it will have to do. He does not want to risk shedding any clothes. Not at the moment. Not with this terrifying possibility pressing so heavily on his mind.

He is still standing in the washroom, leaning over the basin. The water within it is murky – the soap bubbles have long since popped out of existence – and cold. Tarrant stares into the mirror, into his own eyes. The left one is green. Green – a very nice, rational color. The other... He contemplates the subtle, red ring around the iris of his right eye. He hates that hint of madness. It is always with him. Most of the time he does his best to ignore it, to not encourage it.

He cannot afford to avoid confronting it any longer. He wants Alice; he will never be able to simply stand by as another man tries to woo her away from him. But he fears that he wants her... too much.

Perhaps minutes pass. Or hours. He's rather sure he does not spend _all_ night staring at his reflection, trying to banish that ring of red madness from his eye, when a knock interrupts him, startles him.

He takes a deep breath, checks to make sure he is decent, and answers the summons at the door. A frog footman croaks, "From Lady Alice, sir."

Tarrant takes the offered missive and nods his thanks. He suspects, were he to speak, his voice would sound very much like the frog's.

He sits down in the armchair by the hearth and the table overflowing with his small collection of favorite books, and – taking a deep breath – opens his Intended's letter.

 _Dear Mister Hightopp,_

 _As promised, I am appraising you of my schedule at my earliest convenience._

 _If you are agreeable, I would be able to meet with you the day after tomorrow for afternoon tea to discuss our Courtship. At that time, I will ask for a frank discussion of the practice we are currently undertaking. Your honesty would be greatly appreciated._

 _I look forward to your reply._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Alice Kingsleigh_

Tarrant stares at the words for a very long time.

Within his mind, trains of thoughts collide with each other. Trains he wishes he could somehow lose, derail, send off-track... He thinks of the Madness and what he had just unknowingly done. He thinks of what else he might _unknowingly_ do. He thinks of Alice's anger with him and the distance she had kept between them all day and now this letter, so formal.

Like a curtsy.

He remembers: Alice had curtsied to him after the pear core had fallen from her dripping fingers, just before she'd bounded off. Moments before he would have fallen to his knees at her feet and begged to suck the juice from her fingers...

That disturbing show of formal gratitude – that curtsy – had saved her from a sudden ravishing.

This letter...

He wonders if, had it been delivered sooner, _What He Had Done_ might have been prevented...

But it hadn't. This letter had _not_ prevented the Madness from dragging him into its depths and showing him precisely _how_ he needs Alice, precisely how he would use her. Yes, it has been demonstrated to him _quite_ clearly that he is very capable of Taking her for himself, with no thought to the consequences.

Sitting in the dark, the only light in the room coming from the candles he had lit for the purpose of reading her letter, he shudders. Swallows back a sob.

And then he gently folds up her letter – this nightmare – and tucks it away.


	12. The Lobster Quadrille

“I’m not sure I understand,” Alice admits to her companion, the man who had extended the invitation to today’s event to her, the man whose invitation she had accepted: Sir Geoffrey.

 

He smiles warmly. “Things are very different here from Up There, are they not?”

 

“Very,” she admits, watching the ladies of the court tie their skirts up around their knees with ribbons and the gentlemen pull off their shoes and stockings and roll up their trouser legs.

 

“The Lobster Quadrille,” Sir Geoffrey repeats patiently, “is only possible after we’ve cleared out the jellyfish.”

 

“But... those aren’t fish,” she protests, peering into the waist-high, very wide wide wooden tub that sits in the place of a stage. In fact, what she can see bobbing up and down in the water within the tub looks more like... “Aren’t those blueberries?”

 

“Oh, yes. There are a good many delectable fruits floating around in there and we’ll have to clear them out before the dancing can begin.”

 

“The Lobster Quadrille?” she checks.

 

“Yes. You see, we fish out the fruit then, while the carpenters are turning the tub into a stage, we make the fruits into jelly which is eaten on bread.”

 

“... Oh.”

 

Sir Geoffrey laughs at her expression. “It will be delightful. You’ll see. Now would you like to try a bit of fruit fishing?”

 

Alice regards the ladies who are just finishing up with the hoisting of their skirts and grins at their giggles and blushes. Well, why not? At least no one will find it the least bit shocking that she’s not wearing stockings!

 

She nods. “I’ll ask Lady Philomena if she has any more ribbon,” Alice excuses herself from the beaming Sir Geoffrey.

 

“La! Alice! It’s so good to see you at my little event to-day!” Philomena gushes, reaching out for Alice’s hands and gently pulling her into the group of ladies. “Let us help you with your skirt! It’s a lovely dress, isn’t it?” she asks the other woman.

 

As Alice is turned – gently, of course! – this way and that and her skirts tied up above her knees, Philomena finds a moment to lean in and whisper, “La, Alice! You _do_ understand how the Courting is done, yes?” The woman gives her a conspiratorial wink. “We weren’t sure at first! You seemed so enamored with that milliner, but now we understand!”

 

Alice glances around her as several ladies concur with giggles and murmurs. “I’m sorry,” Alice begins. “What do you—?”

 

There’s a loud splash and Alice shrieks along with the ladies as the gentlemen hop into the tub and the waves they create splash over the edge, soaking the grass beneath their feet.

 

“That’s cold!” Alice protests.

 

Philomena puts an arm around her waist and nudges her toward the tub. “It’ll get warmer!” she promises with a wicked smile which prompts more knowing giggles.

 

Frowning, Alice allows herself to be helped into the tub along with the other ladies. Immediately, they each approach a gentleman and begin pointing out which fruits they would like for their jellies. Sir Geoffrey wades over to Alice, looking expectant.

 

When she doesn’t make a request, he asks with a devilish smile, “Which fruits would my lady prefer?”

 

“Oh, um...” Alice is distracted from her answer by the sight of several men, with hands behind their backs, attempting to use their  _teeth_ to pick the bobbing fruits out of the water. One fellow manages to bite down on the stem and lifts a glistening, almost too-ripe pear into his lady’s waiting, cupped hands.

 

Alice feels her face heat at the sight. It reminds her of feeding the Hatt— _Tarrant_ blueberries during the Berrying, actually...

 

“Shall we start with an apple?” Sir Geoffrey interrupts her musings.

 

Honestly, Alice has no preference except to excuse herself from the event. This is  _not_ what she had had in mind. And it makes her uncomfortable to watch such  _blatant_ flirting and...  _Wait a minute! Why is Philomena ignoring her Intended, Sir Robert?_

 

As Sir Geoffrey leans down to chase after the apple he’d suggested, Alice takes note of the fact that not a single person present is, in fact, accompanied by their Intended. She watches as Sir Robert drops a plum into the hands of a giggling Lady Callia. Lady Callia’s Intended, Sir Percival, is happily chasing strawberries through the water at the behest of Lady Opheline...

 

“What sort of event  _is_ this?” Alice demands, automatically accepting the apple Sir Geoffrey offers, its stem pinched between his even, white teeth. She’s too shocked by  _their_ behavior to really mind her own.

 

“As delightful as courting is,” Sir Geoffrey answers in a careful tone, “we all need a break from it from time to time.”

“Oh... you mean to help you appreciate your Intended all the more?” she muses aloud, but he doesn’t hear her. He has already turned away and is splashing after a white peach. Alice decides her interpretation must have been what he’d meant. It helps a bit, but she still feels oddly uncomfortable following Sir Geoffrey round and round the massive tub, her hands – and later her skirt – full of the fruit he had collected, one piece at a time, with only his mouth. 

 

It’s hard to not enjoy the festive atmosphere, however, despite the simmering discomfort in her belly. She’s never seen the White Queen’s courtiers looking so happy or so carefree. They splash through the water, heedless of the damage to their dresses and suits, shrieking with laughter. Several times, a race for a particularly desirable fruit results in one or both gentlemen tripping and dousing themselves  _completely_ with water.

 

Perhaps, Alice decides, whatever strangeness she thinks she senses in the air is actually coming from  _herself_ . Perhaps she feels... guilty about participating in this without the Hatter... perhaps she misses him...

 

_A day apart will do us good,_ she reminds herself as Sir Geoffrey lowers his head over her skirt – which she holds up in order to cradle all the contributions to their jelly – and drops a bitten pear into it.

 

She glances up and into his blue eyes as he raises his head. She looks away, wishing his eyes were a different color entirely.

 

When the last blueberry has been culled from the water, the gentlemen assist their ladies (who are still carrying the fished fruit) from the wooden tub and everyone staggers over to the long table that had been set up. Alice mimics the other ladies as they dump the fruit into large, pewter bowls. Across from her, Sir Geoffrey picks up a masher and begins pressing the fruit with it.

 

They take turns mashing the fruit up and Alice laughs when a particularly strong jab results in splattering both herself and her companion with strawberry juice.

 

“Sorry!” she gasps between giggles.

 

Sir Geoffrey grins and wipes off his face with a handkerchief. As he does this, Alice takes a moment to look around and see how the other pairs are doing with their will-be jellies and that uncomfortable feeling returns. She watches as Lady Philomena’s hands disappear into the mash of fruit with Sir Marshall’s. The fruit masher has been abandoned and they lean toward each other over the pewter bowl, their hands buried up to their wrists.

 

“Come, Lady Alice, let us find the seeds,” Sir Geoffrey invites, rolling up his shirt sleeves and placing his hands on the edge of the bowl.

 

“Oh... is that what everyone is doing?” Alice guesses, finally noticing that she and Geoffrey are – apparently – running a little behind schedule; everyone has moved on to the seed-finding.

 

“Well... yes,” he replies, watching her expression very intently.

 

“I see.”

 

He smiles and nods toward the bowl. “Ladies first, Lady Alice?”

 

Feeling  _very_ (and inexplicably) uncomfortable indeed, Alice takes a breath and plunges her hands into the cocktail of mashed fruit.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tarrant has a sense of cats. Perhaps it is related to his sense of smell. But more likely, it’s a sub-function of his sense of being spied on. And only at times like these – times when he is not distracted by Alice or the possibility of touching Alice, times when he is contemplating the likelihood that he is not  _fit_ to touch Alice at all! – does this sense fully function, it seems (for it had certainly been inoperable during the Berrying).

 

“Not now, Chessur,” he states flatly.

 

“If not now, then when?” the cat replies, de-evaporating with a grin, unperturbed at being caught. “No time like the present, they say.”

 

Tarrant does not look up from polishing the embroidery scissors in his hands. He had come here to-day – on his Alice-less day – to get some work done. Unfortunately, the first three hats he had dared to address had gotten quite irreparably smashed. Somehow.

 

“ _They_ say,” he mutters. “ _You_ say. And since you can never resist saying one thing or another when you show up, you might as well be out with it and be gone again!”

 

Chessur’s eyebrows arch at the sharpness of his tone. “Then I shall!”

 

Tarrant looks up and – as politely as he is capable of – gives the cat his full attention.

 

“I was simply stopping by to ask you why Alice is participating in clearing out the jellyfish in preparation for the Lobster Quadrille... with someone who  _isn_ ’ _t_ her Intended?”

 

“I... She...  _What?_ ”

 

“It appears there’s a courtier-sponsored event on-going in the South Garden,” Chessur supplies, keeping a wary eye on Tarrant as he jostles the table in his rush to stand. “And, as you know, jellyfishing must come first before the—”

 

“I’m well aware of that!” Tarrant snaps, slamming his hip against the corner of the table. He curses his haste-inspired clumsiness and limps toward the door.

 

“You needn’t be in such a hurry,” Chessur drolly informs him. “I’ve alerted the Queen. I’m sure she has everything in hand. It’s all a misunderstanding, I’m sure.” Tarrant hears the cat’s sigh echo along the corridor as he trails along behind. “Still,  _how_ is it these things manage to get mixed up in that Uplander head of hers? I would have thought the implications of attending a  _quadrille_ without one’s Intended would have been quite clear.”

“Perhaps they _are_ ,” Tarrant hears himself murmur fearfully. 

 

Chessur makes an odd whistling-sneezing huff of affront. Were the circumstances less...  _distressing_ , Tarrant might have teased him for outgribing in public. “Ridiculous!” the cat replies on a wheeze. “You still have your Key around you neck, do you not?”

 

Not breaking stride, Tarrant reaches for it, clutches brass key through the fabric of his shirt. “Hearts can be stolen,” he reminds Chessur.

“I highly doubt _our Champion_ would be complacent were _that_ to happen.” 

 

“I hope you’re right,” he replies. Yes, despite the threat of his Madness looming over him, dogging his steps, leering over his shoulder... despite that, Tarrant very  _much_ wants to believe that the Key resting against his chest will still open her heart to him. He does not want to imagine an Alice who regrets giving him the Key To Her Heart. Perhaps he  _should_ hope for her to change her mind, close her heart to him, perhaps it would be  _safer_ for her if she would...

Tarrant knows he is too slurvish to genuinely hope for the things he _should._

 

Reaching an intersection of halls, he turns and nearly collides with Thackery.

 

“Pardon me, Thack,” Tarrant mumbles, stepping nimbly around him. The hare doesn’t respond. He glares at Chessur with his wobbly eyes and declares, “Yer ta blame, Cat! If’n  _I_ were chaperonin’ ’em, this woul’nae b’ ’appenin’!”

 

“Oh, go stir a pot,” Chessur grumbles.

 

“Ye shoul’ take yer aun advice!” the hare shouts, hopping after them. “I was stirrin’ th’ pot jus’ fine! A nice simmer those two were at! Then ye came along an’ snuffed ou’ th’ flame! Nauw lookit ’em! Curdlin’ and separatin’ like oil an’ water! Blasted cat!”

 

“Well, pardon  _me_ for interrupting the agenda you and the Queen cooked up! It shalln’t happen again!”

 

Tarrant takes one more turn and jogs toward the open doors. He can see a lovely day beyond, sunny and bright and filled with the sounds of laughter.

 

Laughter.

 

The knife that he hadn’t noticed being shoved into his chest twists viciously. He clutches the Key tighter, closes his eyes, steels himself for whatever scene might be waiting to attack him, shoves the Madness into its cage, closes the door and listens to the latch snap shut in the darkness of his mind. He takes a deep breath, and then another.

 

He is as ready as he will ever be.

 

Tarrant follows the sounds of merriment and carpentry. He should have expected that, he knows. Chessur  _had_ said Alice was... was... But this evidence that his Intended has been fishing for fruit with another man...

 

For a moment, he fears he cannot do this.

 

But, if he does not, what will Alice believe?

 

She will believe he does not  _care_ , does not  _want_ her.

 

He cannot allow her to think such terrible lies. Yes, she had asked to  _not_ see him to-day (and oh, how horridly painful that had been to read in her letter!), but these are extenuating circumstances!

 

He hurries down the marble steps and into the garden, barely noticing that Chessur and Thackery have let him go on alone. He follows the giggles and scraping of wood as the stage is assembled from the wooden tub. He follows, reaches the edge of the hedgery that blocks his view, turns the corner and...

 

One by one, the giggles stop. Pair by pair, wide eyes (which quickly narrow slyly) turn in his direction. Mouth by mouth, they smirk at him, sneer at him. He looks past the insubstantial obstacle of their scorn toward two figures. The White Queen addresses Alice – Alice in her damp, juice-stained gingham dress – on the far side of the clearing. He watches the Queen’s expression shift from gentle inquiry to compassion. He cannot see Alice’s face from this angle, but he _can_ see the handkerchief clutched in her hand. A _white_ handkerchief. Tarrant does not own any white handkerchiefs which means...

 

“This is a private gathering,”  _Sir_ Geoffrey informs him, stepping forward and interrupting his deductions as to the origins of the handkerchief clutched in Alice’s fingers. The rotter concludes rather brashly, “I don’t believe you were invited, sir!”

 

Tarrant feels his brows lift. He forces himself to look away from Alice, from Alice’s hand and the handkerchief gripped in it, away from her rumpled and damp dress, away from her bare ankles and feet and toes. He looks into the eyes of the man who is attempting to  _steal her heart away from him_ and growls, “I d’nae care. Eject mae... if’n ye  _can. Sir._ ”

 

“Tarrant,” Chessur gently reprimands him. “Come away. I told you, the Queen is handling this.”

  
He tosses a glare at the cat. He wants to strike this bloody pompous dandy in his weak jaw. He wants to shove his way through the clearing, upend their long, white table. He wants to grab the handkerchief from Alice’s hand, lick the juice from her fingers himself, push her against the nearest tree – obliging or not! – and show her precisely _who_ holds the Key To Her Heart! He wants to have her, mark her, make her _his!_

 

“Tarrant!”

 

This time, when Chessur says his name, he shudders. Across the clearing, Alice startles, turns, and stares at him with wide eyes. He notes how pale she seems despite the summer day and the merry-making atmosphere. His gaze gets itself tangled in her disheveled hair.

 

He Wants...

 

Hands fisting, he forces himself to turn away. He cannot see her, speak to her,  _be near her_ now. The Madness has learned how to open latches, it seems. The caging of it had been useless. An utterly futile exercise.

 

He hears giggles and murmurs and scandalized gasps at his back. He ignores them. He heads back into the castle, takes the first turn he comes to, stumbles up the first flight of stares, and trips out onto the nearest balcony. He tells himself he is not trying to watch the goings-on below. In fact, it is quite impossible for him to see much at all. Odd how an aching heart can affect one’s vision...

 

He leans over the railing so that the Key no longer rests against his chest. He still feels the weight of it around his neck, hanging. He clasps his hands together so that he does not pull at his own hair (Alice had grasped it in her fists, at the Berrying, as she’d rubbed herself closer to him, arched her body into his, had mewled for More). He grits his teeth together to stop the shout of rage from escaping. He must control himself. He must  _try._ He cannot allow it to overtake him again. Not  _again!_

 

“Hatter?”

 

The sound of his not-name, he’s sure he imagines. He ignores it. But footsteps that sound very much like Alice Footsteps snare his undivided attention. Tarrant listens as they scuff against the balcony’s marble tiles. He glances over his shoulder and there she is – just as lovely in her summer gown with juice stains under her nails, smeared on her cheek, and splattered on her dress as she had been in her tunic and breeches that morning on the hilltop. Had it only been twelve days ago? It seems like so much... longer.

 

He aches. He is wounded and tired and he Wants her but it would be best – _safest! –_ if...

 

“Ye shoul’ ge’ back ta tha party,” he forces himself to say, turning back around to watch the musicians take up their instruments and gentlemen offer their handkerchiefs and then their hands to their ladies. “They’re startin’ the Lobster Quadrille,” he observes.

 

But Alice doesn’t turn around and leave. She shakes off her hesitance, steps up next to him and stands on his left. And he’s comforted by that; Alice has often been on his left: on the balcony and under the full moon the night before Frabjous Day, on the battlefield moments before the fight , during their Courtship announcement at luncheon... He watches as she looks down her nose at the goings on in the garden.

 

“Bugger that,” she mutters with  _very_ unladylike force. “I bloody  _hate_ the quadrille.”

“You do?” he hears himself ask. “No, no, of course you do. ’Tis the overabundance of rules, isn’t it?” 

 

Alice smiles, huffs out a chuckle, and looks at him. He wants to Answer that look. He wants to... very badly.

 

So he clears his throat. “Still, it’s dreadfully rude of you to rescind your acceptance of an invitation on such short notice.”

 

The burgeoning happiness in her expression vanishes and he hears her teeth grind together. “An invitation accepted under false pretenses. Hatter, I never intended for you to think I was... am...”

 

He straightens, daring to lean toward her yet ready to take a step back at a moment’s notice. The Madness must  _not_ be allowed to hurt her. Ever.

 

“What is it you  _want_ me to think, Alice?” he whispers.

 

She takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. “That I have no...  _interest_ in Sir Geoffrey.”

 

He glances down at the handkerchief still clutched in her hand. “Are you quite sure?”

 

Alice frowns at him, follows his gaze down to the linen in her grasp, and sighs. “Hatter...” she begins, then stops herself and merely unfolds the cloth. He finds himself looking at the personal monogram of the White Queen. “It’s not his.”

 

He’ll feel ashamed of himself later, he decides. Right now he is Relieved.

  
“I also want you to know that I...” 

 

Tarrant looks up and his heart feels as if it’s twisting, being wrung out in his chest.

 

Alice visibly gathers her muchness and announces, “I have no interest in a man who tries to control either me or my schedule. Your behavior yesterday evening was not...”

 

“I know,” he admits softly. In so very many ways, his behavior last night had been horrid. Luckily, Alice does not know the true extent of it. “I’m sae very sorry.” More than he can say. More than she can imagine.

 

“Don’t do it again,” she rasps.

  
He cannot guarantee that. He wants to – _oh how he wants to!_ – but so long as the Madness has the potential to overpower him, making that promise is not... possible. 

 

“What happened?” she asks and for one eternal, frightful moment, Tarrant thinks she is asking about the very subject of his thoughts: his Madness, his Want, his lack of control over both.

 

“We used to be friends,” she explains, her tone softening, her shoulders untensing. It makes all the difference in Underland and the air between them tastes like Summer again. “I’ve missed you, Hatter. My friend, I mean.”

 

He closes his eyes, lets out a long breath. “And I you, Alice.” For a moment, he relishes her presence next to him. Chessur is oddly absent. They are alone. Just friends. The moment blossoms between them, pure in a way their shared moments have not been since before that blasted Pear Incident.

 

Friends. Yes, he very much misses being Alice’s friend. Courting had changed that.

 

He never wants this moment to end. He is with her and she is with him and although they are not touching, they are  _content._ And yet they should  _not_ be standing here, side by side, as friends. They are  _not_ friends at the moment. They are courting. “Maybe you  _should_ get back to the party. You’ll be missed.”

 

“I don’t care,” Alice replies smartly, warming Tarrant with her renewed disdain for Rules. “And besides, I already informed Sir Geoffrey that I am not as available as I had mistakenly indicated I was.”

 

Another layer of tension slides from his heart. Alice misunderstands his silence: “You can’t think that I’d rather be down there with them than here with you!”

 

Oh, how he wishes her words could mend the rift between them. He wants them to. He wants to be her friend again... Yet he Wants her, too. And the second makes the first impossible. But, really, Tarrant reminds himself, what _he_ wants is not the Issue here. The Issue is...

 

“What do you want, Alice?”

 

“My friend,” she replies immediately. “We used to be friends before all this courtship business started.”

 

“Perhaps that is why friends do not court each other,” he allows, bowing to the wisdom of the ages.

  
“This was a monumentally bad idea,” she admits. “Bloody...! I _miss **you!**_ ” 

 

His arms ache to reach out to her, to hold her close, to simply  _ embrace _ her and  _ comfort  _ her. To comfort  _ himself. _ He grips the railing tighter. “I miss me, too,” he replies, wondering where Alice’s friend has disappeared to in the wake of his jealousy and temper and fear. He had been better to her as a friend, he admits. She had been happier... Safer.

 

Alice sighs out a deep breath. “I just... I need some time to think about this... Courtship,” she whispers. “I’ve... never seen you like this before. It’s... unsettling.”

 

“I’m sorry, Alice.” He blinks back against the stinging sensation behind his eyes. He considers her words for a moment and volunteers, “ _ I’ve _ never seen me like this before.”

 

“I don’t understand why this is happening,” she confesses. “The Queen said our Courtship was going so well... She seemed pleased so I thought...”

 

“You thought what?” he prompts when her voice thins and fades out completely.

 

“I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t want to think about it, perhaps. I was too concerned with...”

 

“Yes?”

She shakes her head, looking away, her shoulders weighted in defeat or shame or... 

 

“Tell me, Alice. Please?”

 

“Tell me why you were so happy. In the library. When the Key appeared on the table.”

 

“Ah. Well...” Tarrant glances at her, takes in her pale, stern expression and knows he must tell her the truth. It is unavoidable now. And if he insists on Avoiding it, she will not trust him again. Not as her Intended or as her Friend. Although, perhaps it would be For The Best if she  _ does not _ trust him...

 

“’Tis very rare tha’ a courtin’ couple e’er leaves the Luckluster Library.”

 

“What?” She turns toward him completely. He cannot bring himself to meet her gaze.

  
“The name – Luskluster - ’tis significant,” he says, directing his attention toward the garden yet he does not focus on it. “If’n ye’re feelin’ luck or lust, then in the library ye stay. But, if’n ye feel sommat else – say, _love_ – then ye d’nae belong in there anymuir.” 

 

“The Key to Thine Heart...?”

 

He nods. “Aye. We both felt tha beginnings o’love in aur hearts. Tha’s what called Key to us.”

 

“And that’s why...”

 

“I was sae happy. Aye.” He swallows and admits the final truth, “I was hopin’ ye migh’... afore these twine fortnights were up... ye migh’ come ta love mae, Alice.” He does not look at her as he explains. “’Tis tha purpose o’ tha Courtin’: ta open twine hearts ta each o’her... if’n ’tis possible. It cannae  _ force  _ love but... still, there’s tha  _ expectation... _ ” He pauses and swallows but his mouth is too dry and he only succeeds in making his throat ache all the worse. “I d’nae tell ye sooner because I wanted ye ta love mae ’r no’love mae... wi’out any expectation ta sway ye one way ’r the o’her.”

 

“I... I see.” And he thinks, finally, she does. “Hatter, I...”

 

He lifts a hand. “Please, Alice,” he begs. It is painful to hear her  _ not _ say his name here, now, following that confession. He cannot bear it. Once or twice she had managed to speak his given name: in moments of passion or deep caring he had been  _ Tarrant _ to her, not  _ Hatter... _ He cannot stand to be reminded of the distinction again. “Mayhap ’tis best if’n we... I think ye had tha righ’ o’ it. I... I’ll see ye to-morrow. At afternoon tea?”

 

She nods and he tips his hat to her. The gesture is too formal; he realizes it the moment his fingers release the brim and he looks into her shocked expression. His apology sticks in his throat and he does not have the strength to pry it free. He turns away then, and just as Alice had done in the garden a moment after the pear core had tumbled from her fingertips, he flees.

*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for the Lobster Quadrille comes from the explanation of it in Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland.


	13. The Queen's Favor, Part 1

Alice had stared after the Hatter in utter disbelief until – long after he had gone – Chessur had whooshed gently into existence beside her and purred softly, “It’s getting late... and the Queen told me she would very much like for you to come to dinner tonight.”

 

Still dazed with shock and what she suspects is a cracked – but not broken! – heart, Alice had complied, following Chessur back to her rooms. It’s not until he helps himself to her wardrobe and lays a lovely blue evening gown on her bed that she comes (or perhaps _returns_ ) to herself.

 

“Why this dress?” she asks and he pauses guiltily.

 

“Oh... As I mentioned, the Queen would like you to come to dinner tonight.”

 

“A... formal dinner?” she confirms, for this dress is far and beyond what would normally be worn to dinner here at the palace.

 

“Yes, precisely.” And then he stubbornly refuses to say any more on the subject. He wisps away with the parting comment: “I’ll just let the maid know you might need help dressing in that concoction of overindulgence, shall I?”

 

Alice doesn’t wait for anyone to come to help her. She hides herself in the bathing room and begins washing up. Her dress is ruined, her hair is a nightmare, and she doubts she’ll ever get these berry stains out from under her fingernails. She stares at her hands and, for an unsettling moment imagines it’s not berry juice but blood beneath her nails. Blood or whatever the stains on the Hatter’s hands are... The sight makes her feel unaccountably guilty.

 

Yes, the activity through which she had acquired these stains had hurt the Hatter (or rather, her participation had) but  _she_ had been a victim herself! She had not truly understood the  _purpose_ of Lady Philomena’s gathering. Oh, how mortifying it had been to be taken aside by the Queen and have the intricacies of courtier Courting methods explained to her. Suddenly, Philomena’s comment about Alice truly understanding how Courting is  _done_ and her reference to Tarrant as a  _milliner_ and how Alice had  _seemed_ enamored with him had made a terrible sort of sense.

 

Courting, for the White Court, is simply a means to an end. That end being drawing the One they truly want to them through jealousy and flirtation.

 

Alice shudders, hating herself all over again for putting the Hatter through that. For making him think – even for a moment – that she would prefer the company of someone else over his, that she had been _using_ him to gain the attention of another. Why, if _he_ had attended a similar event with another woman Alice would have—!

 

Alice gasps, dropping her comb which bounces off the rim of the water basin and onto the rug.

 

Yes, she decides.  _This_ emotion she is feeling is heartache. A rather severe one. She swallows, takes a deep breath, and then retrieves the comb. Standing up once more, she regards her reflection. She cannot avoid the truth any longer. Yes, she wants him, but now...

 

“The Ha...  _Tarrant_ ,” she corrects herself, informs her reflection sternly, “is mine. I want him.”

 

When had this become about more than simply winning permission to explore his skin, to taste his kiss, to feel his body against hers? She doesn’t know. But she cannot deny that it  _has_ become More. It’s a little frightening, she admits. She had not expected to want More from him. But if she truly believes they are friends and nothing more, then it would not Bother her to contemplate him stepping out with another woman.

  
But it does. It Bothers her very much. 

 

A knock on her bedroom door waylays all other thoughts along these lines. With a sigh, Alice calls for the maid to enter. With the dodo bird’s surprisingly efficient assistance, Alice is bathed, dressed and primped for dinner.

 

“Is to-night’s dinner a special event?” Alice inquires.

 

The dodo shrugs her feathery, narrow shoulders. “I wouldn’t know, your ladyship.”

 

Alice bites back both a sigh and yet another reminder that she is  _not_ a lady.

 

“Will your Intended be escorting you to dinner?”

 

“No, I’m going alone tonight.”

 

“Very well, your ladyship.” A bit of fluffing and fumbling and then the dodo nods. “Ah. There you are. All beautifulled and ready for dinner, ma’am.”

 

“Thank you, Molta.”

  
The walk from her rooms down to the dining hall seems... longer than she remembers. Lonelier. She misses the Hatt... _Tarrant_. (Damnation! Will she _never_ be accustomed to using his given name?!) But despite the urge to have someone – a comforting presence – beside her, she avoids the courtiers. Occasionally, they pause or slow their steps, perhaps tacitly inviting Alice to catch up and chat, but Alice is still too... disconcerted from the afternoon’s event to feel comfortable with any of them now. It is as if, beneath their human-like faces, they are a different creature entirely. And she does not care for their ways at all. 

 

She thinks of Philomena and wonders if she’ll be cursed to sit next to the woman at dinner. Blast it all, she  _does not_ want to deal with explaining her rather rude departure from the festivities. Not yet. Maybe not  _ever!_

 

“Lady Alice?”

 

_Please let that voice be a figment of my imagination. A daydream. A waking **nightmare...**_

 

It isn’t. It is Sir Geoffrey, just as she’d feared. Alice summons a weak smile for him. She knows she ought to apologize. She’d stammered her hasty explanation – had confessed to misunderstanding the nature of his invitation – and then she had dashed off after the... Tarrant. She forces the words past her lips now.

 

“Sir Geoffrey. I’m very sorry for my rudeness this afternoon. I should have apologized more...” Genuinely. Sincerely. “... fully.”

 

With a cautious smile, he waves the words away, swatting them out of the air between them. “I understand completely, Lady Alice. And  _ I _ would  like to apologize for causing you any distress to-day.”

 

“Thank you,” she somehow manages. It sounds flat and unfeeling in her own head but Sir Geoffrey doesn’t seem to mind the tone.

 

“Can I escort you to dinner?” He holds out his arm.

 

The polite thing to do would be to accept, but suppose that has Other Meanings here? Just as the Lobster Quadrille had?

 

“Thank you, but no. I would like to have a private word with the Queen before dinner starts.”

 

The man relaxes his arm and nods. “Then I shall leave you to it. Good evening, Lady Alice.”

 

She curtsies briefly and he continues on his way. When he has turned the corner, she lets out a breath. No sooner does she do so than a very familiar form brushes past her.

 

He does not speak, but she would recognize that suit and hat anywhere. She opens her mouth to call him back, but his scent trips her up. It’s not until the...  _ Tarrant _ also disappears around the corner that she realizes he’d been quite... tense and... had his hands been fisted? Perhaps.

 

“Loitering in corridors when everyone is waiting for you?” Chessur muses, his eyes and grin forming in the air in front of her. “Is this how you hone the art of Lateness?”

 

“Oh, hush,” she informs him and sets off again. She swishes and sweeps into the dining room and surveys the crowd. Her attention is – at once – drawn to the...  _ Tarrant. _ He is sitting in the same seat he had occupied at that fateful luncheon, at once looking both tense and morose. His hat is – presumably – under his chair again.

 

Alice tears her gaze away before he can look up from contemplating his place setting and locates the Queen.

 

“Miss Alice!” the White Queen greets her warmly. “Thank you for coming to dinner.”

 

Alice frowns. “I usually come to dinner, do I not, Your Majesty?”

 

“Ah, yes. But I was most specifically hoping you would make an appearance to-night! Now, if you’ll have a seat, we can begin!”

 

Even when phrased politely, it’s difficult to refuse a Royal Decree, Alice discovers and, defeated, slides into the indicated seat... which happens to be the one to the right of the... Tarrant’s. Suddenly nervous, she struggles to think of a greeting. The...  _ Tarrant _ , however, does not seem to be all that interested in greetings this evening.

 

“ _ Why  _ were ye talkin’ ta  _ Sir  _ Geoffrey?” he growls under his breath.

 

Alice looks up and follows his yellowish glare to the gravy boat which cringes back against the centerpiece on the table. Irritated all over again (hadn’t they already dealt with this?), Alice hisses back, “ _ He _ was talking to  _ me _ .  _ I  _ was replying.”

 

She’s quite pleased with the distinction. It captures both her feelings on the matter (those being her reluctance and irritation at having to speak to the man)  _ and _ a subtle reprimand. The inference is lost on her seatmate:

 

“An’ why woul’ ye be doin’ a thing like tha’?”

  
Alice grits out, “That is – generally – what one does when one is spoken to. It’s what I’m doing _now._ I will happily cease and desist if things continue along this vein, however!” 

 

He twitches at that. His fingers uncurl a bit from the almost-fists they’d slowly been tensing into. “Nay, I...” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Alice. I’m fine.”

 

“Are you?” she checks, fisting her own hand to keep from laying it on his jacket sleeve and then –  _ Oh, bugger this! – _ Alice reconsiders. She is  _ not _ (nor has she  _ ever  _ been) afraid of him. She places her hand on his arm and rubs her thumb against the weave.

 

He startles a bit and –  _ finally _ – looks at her. His smile is tremulous, but it  _ is _ there.

 

Around them, the fist course is being delivered along with beverages. They still have a moment before the Queen announces their appreciation for the feast and everyone digs in. (Genteelly, of course.)

 

She watches as Tarrant’s (yes!  _ At long bloody last! _ ) gaze conducts a brief inspection of their surroundings. He then leans a bit closer to her – a motion which delivers his ever-mouth-watering scent to her – and confides, “I will try harder, Alice. I promised you a proper courtship and thus far things have been... I  _ am _ sorry for that. You deserve... better. From me.”

 

“From me, as well. I shalln’t try to... persuade you to break your promise anymore. I’m sorry I—”

 

Tarrant’s brows arc upward at that, then crawl together in thought. Alice would have liked to have finished her apology. She would have liked to have asked after that thought that had just tripped its way through his mind, but the Queen chooses That Moment to stand and address the assembly.

 

“Good evening, everyone! Thank you all for coming!” the Queen practically sings. “Many of you are, no doubt, suspecting that to-night is a Special Occasion... and you are correct! After much consideration, I have determined which Favor is best suited for Miss Alice Kingsleigh and Mister Tarrant Hightopp.” The Queen holds up a hand to forestall the buzz of whispers that are trembling on the tip of every White courtier’s tongue. “And I shall bestow it upon them... following dinner. We may all look forward to that as we feast upon Underland’s generous bounty.”

 

The Queen nods and, gesturing daintily, intones, “We thank thee, Underland, for the nourishment you provide. All is well.”

 

The moment her posterior settles in her chair and the Queen smiles pleasantly in Alice and Tarrant’s direction, the chatter starts.

 

“Blast,” Alice hisses just loudly enough for Tarrant to hear. “Couldn’t she have waited until  _ after  _ dinner?” With a sigh, Alice lifts a hand to her temple and rubs at the twinge she expects to become a fully blown headache in record time.

 

“Rather annoying, isn’t it?” he concurs on a low whisper.

 

“Or not...” Alice glances at her seatmate – Sir Patrick, thank God – who is debating with  _ his  _ seatmate, Sir Oliver, and decides that the ruckus  _ could _ work to their advantage. “I rather think we could speak freely on any subject we like and no one would be able to hear us,” she proposes.

 

Tarrant’s eyes light up. She can see no trace of yellow irritation in them. “Yes, yes,” he agrees, finding her line of thought and joining a caboose to it. “But they will  _ see  _ us talking and...”

 

“And being amiable?” she finishes. “We’re friends, are we not? No matter what other... developments may happen?”

 

“Aye,” he agrees, the small, creases of worry in his brow smoothing out.

 

“And when have I ever let what other people think stop me from speaking to someone I consider a friend?”

 

“To my recollection... never, Alice.” He is fairly  _ glowing  _ at this point and Alice feels her own smile stretching then  _ straining  _ her cheeks.

 

She nods. “There you have it then. You’ve promised to do right by me and I... thank you for that. Truly. I shall try to do right by you. It was unfair of me to try to... tempt you, to break the rules...”

  
“Alice,” he says, leaning close on the pretext of reaching for the flinching gravy boat, “I must confess...” His voice lowers considerably until it is nothing more than a whisper of warmth and closeness: “I quite enjoyed it when you broke the rules.” 

 

“Did you?” she manages to mouth on a breath.

 

“Aye. But I shouldn’t have. I  _ shouldn _ ’ _ t _ have. And I won’t any longer!” he warns her in the tone of a man who has made up his mind.

 

“I’ll behave,” she promises. “It’ll be just like the Hedgehog Chase. Day in and day out.”

 

“And in between?” he asks with a raised brow.

 

She sighs. “ _ And  _ in between. And when I feel the urge to...  _ ahem _ , I shall remind myself that two weeks is not so long.”

 

The gravy boat clatters to the tabletop, nearly tipping over and splashing its contents on the orchids at the center of the table. The flowers raise quite a ruckus over the near miss which draws several gazes but makes it impossible for Alice and Tarrant to be overheard.

 

“ _ Alice _ ,” he scolds her, his lips twitching and his bow tie brighter and fuller than she can ever recall seeing it, “ _ please. _ Not while I am transporting delicate food vessels!”

 

“I beg your pardon,” she replies, watching him reach for his water glass. “This self-control business is rather new to me.”

 

He chokes on the scented water and she watches his fingers tighten around the stem of the flute glass. “I appreciate your... efforts then,” he manages, suddenly looking rather...  _ strained. _

 

“It would be easier if you didn’t smell so utterly delectable,” she grumbles, hoping to turn his attention away from whatever dark thought had snagged it.

 

He blinks and – forgetting the fact that nearly half of the attendees are watching them openly and the other half are sending periodic sidelong glances their way (all except the Queen, of course, who seems quite enamored with her rice pudding) – gapes at her. “I... You think I...”

 

“Irresistible,” she confirms very quietly though a bright smile. “So I’ll thank you to keep your torment of me to a minimum.”

 

“I shall try,” he promises then raises his glass to hers. They touch the crystal rims to each other and toast their new (or would it be  _ reinstated? _ ) agreement.

 

Supper continues and it is not the tremendous affair Alice had feared it would be, not with Tarrant sharing occasional comments with her. They discuss the temperament of the food, the inclination of the courtiers to do cartwheels, and the likelihood of a dish running away with a spoon.

 

It is  _ lovely. _

 

So, of course it doesn’t last.

 

Alice leans back in her chair with a sigh of contentment. Truly, the dessert had been exquisite. Nearly as wonderful as... She gives herself a brief shake and the memory of Tarrant’s mouth slanting hungrily over hers dissolves.

 

And then the sound of a crystal flute glass being gently tapped by a silver spoon rings out. “Your attention, please! Members of the White Court and our guests of honor—” The Queen smiles pointedly in Alice and Tarrant’s direction. Alice realizes with a start that she had nearly forgotten the purpose of the elaborate dinner. She glances at Tarrant, who glances at her, and both glances contain equal servings of Worry. “—shall we adjourn to the Gilded Hall?”

 

The Queen gestures to several frog footmen who are waiting to escort everyone to their destination. Alice finds this odd and shares it with Tarrant. “Why do we need a guide?” she murmurs aloud as he assists her with her chair then pauses to collect his hat from beneath his own.

 

“Do you happen to know where the aforementioned room is located?” he whispers back.

 

Alice shakes her head. She notices the barely-contained excitement in the air and the obvious curiosity on every single painted face. “Perhaps none of them do, either?”

 

“The Gilded Hall,” the Queen quietly informs them as she floats closer, “is reserved for only the most Special of Occasions.”

 

Alice feels her brows rise. “You really needn’t go to any trouble over us, Your Majesty...”

 

“Nonsense, dear Alice,” the Queen replies very happily. “I shall go to as much trouble as I like. I am the Queen again, you know.” She tilts her head in their direction in the approximation of a bow. “Thanks to the two of you. And now, hopefully, I have the opportunity to repay the favor.”

 

Alice watches as the Queen floats away. Unthinkingly, she reaches out and grasps Tarrant’s wrist. “Is it... wrong of me to  _ not _ feel comforted by that?”

 

She glances to the side and is met with his own expression of concern. “If it is wrong, then we are  _ doubly  _ wrong,” he answers, gently twisting his arm from her grasp and then offering her his elbow.

 

“Sorry,” she whispers, placing her hand  _ properly  _ on his forearm.

 

“I will never require an apology from you for reaching out to me, Alice,” he informs her. “Although, perhaps, at times, it might not be the wisest course of action. A well enunciated  _ Fez  _ is quite effective at... unstable moments.”

 

“Fez,” she murmurs, nodding, testing the word. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Although she can’t imagine a moment unsettling enough to call for its use.

 

“ _ Ahem _ ,” someone croaks from the left and a bit... well...  _ down  _ from them. They both turn and regard the frog footman waiting to lead them from the room. “If you’ll both follow me?”

 

“Oh! I beg your pardon,” Tarrant replies and, with a bow of apology to the footman, falls into step behind him. Alice matches his stride, which she suspects he consciously shortens when they are walking together, and tries not to think too much on the Royal Favor she and Tarrant had (unfairly) won. In retrospect, that event had seemed horribly weighted in her and Tarrant’s favor. Perhaps someday she will ask the Queen about it. She wonders if she’ll get a straight answer.

 

The assistance of the frog footman turns out to be quite unnecessary as they merely follow in the wake of excited chatter and delighted giggles. “I doubt we would have gotten lost,” she says in an aside.

 

Tarrant giggles and Alice gives him her undivided attention. “Yes, yes! But we  _ do  _ have a reputation for being... wayward.”

 

Alice feels a blush heat her cheeks at the reminder. Yes, she  _ had  _ stood  in front of the Queen herself and more or less declared her intention to waylay her Intended as often as possible. “Ah. Yes.”

 

They file into the indicated room and Alice tries to  _ not  _ feel anxious as they walk between two lines of courtiers (the frogs must have arranged them thus – Alice  _ highly  _ doubts they could have managed the formation on their own) toward the low dais on which the queen and a simple, waist-high pedestal stand.

The White Queen reaches out a hand and beckons them closer, then up the three low steps to the stage. With another flutter of her hands, she waves them toward the white, marble pedestal until Alice stands on one side and Tarrant on the other. This forces her to drop her hand from his arm and she’s surprised by how... _very_ uncomfortable she feels once she is unable to maintain some connection – no matter how superficial – to his warmth and solidity. Her fingers curl in on themselves and she tells herself to _resist_ any other evidence of sudden and overwhelming uncertainty and shyness. She tries to ignore the fact that dozens of eyes are on her, that she is on display on a platform that, except for the indoor location and lack of trellis, could be a gazebo... 

 

Mouth dry, she licks her lips and looks up at Tarrant. He seems just as uncomfortable as she is. Alice makes a mental note that – should she ever be invited to another Hedgehog Chase – she will, most definitely, be spending the day in bed with a migraine. (She doubts the headache will even be a work of fiction. All she’ll have to do is remember this moment and... voilà! A perfectly authentic headache.) She drops her gaze to the empty pedestal and hopes – with all her might – that Thackery is going to pop out from behind a tapestry and place a bowl of squimberry puffs on this very spot. Perhaps for her to toss at the crowd, March Hare Style.

 

“Ah!” the Queen observes, evidently very pleased with Alice and Tarrant’s positions across from each other. She looks from one to the other and says in a soft tone that carries through the utterly silent room, “Now, Alice, Hatta...”

 

Alice cannot resist looking up at that quiet yet commanding maternal tone. Tarrant also follows her example; his gaze is drawn to the Queen’s pale face and gentle smile.

 

“The Favor I give to you is the thing which I believe the two of you require above all else. Before I offer that, I would ask that you do one thing for each other...” She takes a step back, lifts her hands to her head and very deliberately removes the white gold crown with its aquamarine gems from her head. Alice watches as she places it upon the pedestal.

“The Crown of Underland is more than simple metal and precious stones,” the Queen begins, “as each lord and lady present here knows.” She lifts her gaze and addresses the audience. “Each lord and lady here has placed their hand upon the Crown with mine and in doing so they have Seen into my heart, just as I have Seen into theirs. This is how the White Court has always been chosen and how I know that each and every person here is precious and unique and devoted to the peace and wellbeing of all of Underland.” 

 

The Queen pauses and directs her attention to first Tarrant and then Alice. “My friends, Revolution Leader and Champion, I invite you to Know each other. Place your hands upon the Crown and Look into the other’s heart.”

  



	14. The Queen's Favor, Part 2

Tarrant Hightopp knows precisely of what the White Queen speaks. Years ago, before his heart had been broken and burnt beyond recognition, he had submitted himself to this Crown; he had opened his heart to the Queen; he had viewed hers. (And on the day of the Jabberwocky’s attack, he had turned to her without hesitation for he had Known that there would be no Underland without this noble heart to look after it, to nurture it, to shelter and guide it. He has never regretted that choice... only the fact that he had not been capable of doing more to save the others...) Yes, this Crown knows him and he knows _it_. He remembers the frightening rush of emotion that is not one’s own... He recalls the utter openness this artifact forces upon the supplicant... 

 

It had frightened him then, as he had experienced it. He had not been prepared despite all the warnings the Queen had given him.

 

_ “Are you  **sure** you wish to be employed at the White Court?” _ She had asked more than once.

 

Only when he had touched the Crown and given over his heart for her inspection had he  _ truly _ understood her hesitance. Especially in the face of his calm assurance. His arrogance.

 

Tarrant stares at the Crown, gleaming like a knowing grin in the silence, and takes a deep breath. He fists his hands. Yes,  _ oh  _ yes , he and this Crown have met before.

 

And he fears it now more than ever.

 

If he touches it as the Queen is inviting him to... why, Alice will be able to feel  _ everything  _ – every emotion, every heartache, every hope, every wish, every dream, every fantasy – and she will feel it all at once. He will not be able to hide his fear of himself or his lust for her or his terror that she will leave him or his fascination with her bravery. It will all be there in one tangled, indigestible mass of Love-Want-Fear-Need!

She will feel the strength of his love for her, the very love that he fears will frighten her, push her away, incite a denial of his Suit... 

 

He cannot lose her! They have just become friends once more and laughed and giggled and joked and teased together! He  _ cannot...! _ He  _ must not...! _ _ Must... not...! _

 

“Fez!” Alice hisses and Tarrant startles. He looks up from his hands, which are gripping the sides of the pedestal with such force his entire upper body aches. He shakes his head, draws a deep breath, and tries to continue to ignore the audience still gaping shamelessly at the pair of them.

 

He manages a tremulous smile, which Alice cautiously returns. For an instant, he simply looks at her, studies her too-tame, too-elegant hair, the apprehensive gleam in her hazel eyes (is she nervous because he had nearly lost control again or because the situation itself is nerve-wracking?), the slight upward curve of her lips.

 

This woman before him, Alice,  _ The  _ Alice, their Champion, his Intended... Here, now, he has the chance to Look into her heart. To See if it possesses any crumbs of romantic feelings for him at all. Of course, as he learns of her feelings, this woman who holds his metaphorical heart in her hands will learn of  _ his... _

 

Yes, he decides as his brows twitch and his gaze drops to the Crown again, eloping probably would have been better. Tarrant promises to give Alice’s suggestions more careful consideration in the future and sternly reminds himself of where he is and that the memory of that morning tea is Not Welcome here and now!

 

“Alice,” he whispers, despite the dozens of pairs of ears listening in. Alice leans toward him and he sees a weakness in her he has never noticed before. A frailty. She does not know what to do. Her gaze is hungry for direction. He cannot give it, for there are no directions to be had. There are only two choices: All or Nothing. “The Crown in very... thorough. If there is anything you do not wish to share with me, we must decline.”

She blinks once, wets her lips, takes a slow breath. He watches her gaze lower, watches her hands curl around the edge of the pedestal, mirroring but not touching his. “I think...” she begins with extreme care, as if tiptoeing her way through Thackery’s kitchen at brillig. She raises her gaze to his and replies, “I would like to. I would like to know.”

The curiosity and determination and _muchness_ in her eyes nearly sends him to his knees. _It should not be like this!_ he despairs. This should not be an undertaking driven by such easily regrettable motives! It should not be her stubbornness but her _generosity_ that decides her. 

 

This will be a mistake. A horrid mistake. She will realize it the moment their fingers brush against the warm, living metal.

 

Perhaps Tarrant has forgotten how very  _ hard  _ making  Tough Decisions is. Perhaps he is out of practice. Why does this decision feel harder than the one he’d made in an instant at Iplam all those years ago? Or the one he’d made at the river’s edge with the Red Guard closing in? He feels as if his chest is being torn open, as if his heart is being squeezed from his chest, as if the Crown will not permit him to escape its presence whole.

 

Slowly, he takes a step back.

 

He cannot allow Alice to do this. He cannot permit himself to hope that she loves him as he needs her to. He cannot risk her rejection (and there is Much to reject, lurking in the dark corners of his heart) for mere  _ curiosity. _

 

Tarrant turns toward the Queen, shaking his head, trying to wrangle all the words he needs in order to express both his appreciation and innate unworthiness of this opportunity, this Gift... when a hand on his wrist stops him. He looks down at the perfectly sized Alice fingers curling gently over his cuff. He pauses, stops, freezes.

 

“You said I...” She pauses, swallows, tries again, “You implied it would always be... permissible for me to reach out to you...”

 

And she  _ is  _ Reaching Out now.

 

“You do not know what you are asking for,” he mouths, mindful of their audience.

 

“That’s the trouble,” she agrees. “I don’t.”

 

And she wants to. He can see it in her eyes now. There is  _ strength _ behind her curiosity... or, perhaps, it is burgeoning desire. He should shake off her hand, turn on his heel and leave. He should.

 

But she may not forgive him for leaving her here with her questions unanswered and doubt swarming her thoughts. It will damage Alice if he leaves.

 

It will only break his own heart if he stays.

Given the two, he knows which is – by far – the most important, which must be preserved and protected at all costs. 

 

He stops resisting. He gives in, turns back to face her fully, and nods. Only then does she remove her hand from his wrist.

 

“Shall I hold your hat?” the Queen softly interjects.

 

Without a word, he presents it to her. The battered and often-snagged sash slips through his fingers. He prays he is not making a mistake. Or rather, he hopes this will not be a  _ bigger  _ mistake  than turning away from Alice would have been.

 

He may never know.

 

He resigns himself to that, centers himself.

 

“Now, think of each other and touch the Crown,” the Queen gently instructs.

 

Think of Alice. Of course he will think of Alice. When does he  _ not  _ think of Alice? Especially recently? He spares a fleeting thought for their unfinished Courtship, for their future –  _ What will become of us now? – _ and lifts a trembling hand.

 

Alice follows his lead, mirrors his movements.

 

He looks up, into her eyes, and touches his bare fingertips to the Crown.

 

_ CURIOSITY... _

 

Yes, of course that would be the first thing he would feel from Alice. Given the circumstances.

 

_ DESIRE... _

 

The strength of it makes him blink, makes him shudder. She had not been White Lying earlier when she had confessed to finding him irresistible.

 

_ POSSESSION... _

 

He sucks in a breath at that. He  _ never  _ would  have expected that she would feel so strongly about  _ keeping _ him!

 

_ CONFUSION... _

 

Yes, there are many things to be confused about. He examines the emotion delicately but, in the end, lets it pass by. Emotions do not concern themselves with explanations as to their origin and impetus. They exist. Nothing more.

 

_ CARING... _

 

He closes his eyes in relief, lets out a long breath. She Cares for him. Of course she does. Had she not uttered the word  _ Fez  _ just moments ago, proving that not only does she Listen to him, but she wishes to see him happy, safe, and wholly himself at all times?

 

_ RESPECT... _

_  
This_ surprises  him, causes his eyes to open, to stare into her own. He had not expected that she would hold him in such high esteem. He is a haberdasher. He is Mad. He is without wealth or ambition. And she _respects_ him for it. 

 

_ TRUST... _

 

He feels the burn and sting of tears at this. She should not trust him. Not with all that he could do... all that he thinks of doing... all that he fantasizes doing... She should not trust him at all! And, no doubt, after their hearts have bled themselves dry through the Crown, that will change. Many things will change. It is the cruelest torture of all to Feel her warm and deeply moving regard for him... and then have it whisked away in the next instant! She will not forgive him for his rabid Need for her. She will not...  _ should  _ not... He had  _ known  _ the risks when he’d agreed to show her his heart, after all... He should not dwell on what has been found and lost.

 

And then...

 

Tarrant unthinkingly chases the following, fleeting sensation over the curve of the Crown’s jewel-studded white gold surface with his fingertips. It slips through his grasp, trickles away, and he is afraid he’ll manage to convince himself he had not felt it at all.

 

But he  _ had _ .

 

He had felt... a warmth that had not been Love. Not...  _ quite. _

 

Tarrant’s fingers refuse to abandon the wisp of feeling and they circle the Crown until he finds Alice’s hand in his own. He brushes his callused, chemical-stained thumb over the backs of her fingers, marveling.

 

True, she does not Love him. Not yet but... if he is careful... if she gives him a chance to overcome the darkness within himself... perhaps... if she is  _ willing... _ she  _ could _ . Alice  _ could  _ love him .

 

“Alice,” he whispers, knowing he must apologize now, explain without hesitation. “What you felt just now...”

 

And the words scatter at the sight of her teeth digging into her lower lip, the sight of bright tears filling her eyes. She blinks them away and surprises him by returning his grip, clutching at his fingers,  _ keeping _ him in her grasp.

“I don’t deserve all of that,” she mouths on a ragged breath. “But I...” 

 

Her grip tightens on his battered fingers. His heart leaps into his throat. He can see it in her eyes:

 

She  _ still _ wants him!

 

Tarrant grabs a hold of the edge of the pedestal again. He doesn’t care if he’s making a fool of himself, grinning like the most brainless idiot in all of Underland. Alice  _ wants _ him , despite the overwhelming weight of his Love for her and the unignorable urgency of his Need and Want and Desire and the unpredictable terrifying strength of his Madness... Let the courtiers giggle at him. He cannot bring himself to care.

 

He barely notices when something long and soft is draped around his shoulders. He  _ does _ blink , however, when a familiar length of salmon-pink satin is placed over Alice’s shoulders as well. Frowning, he turns away from Alice, his gaze searching the knowing expression on the Queen’s face.

 

“It has been made quite clear to all,” the Queen says softly, “with the aid of the Crown, that the two of you are very well suited to each other. And it would give me great pleasure if you will accept my Favor.”

 

She reaches up and adjusts the sash that had, until moments ago, been wrapped around Tarrant’s ever-present top hat. “I have thought on it a great deal, and I have decided that the thing which the two of you need more than anything else in all of Underland – the very best Gift I am capable of bestowing upon you both – is nothing more and nothing less than each other.”

 

The crowd is forgotten. Tarrant’s awareness narrows to the slender hand gripping his own over the Crown and the Queen’s gentle expression.

 

“If you wish it,” she invites them with a gesture to the ends of the sash which dangle over Alice’s left shoulder and Tarrant’s right, “you may Tie The Knot here and now... and be wed.”

 

He feels his brows twitch and his face blank with surprise, alarm. This is too soon! Much too soon! Why, Alice has  _ just  _ learned of his True Feelings for her. She will not want to... She will not be ready to... She will pull away from him, refuse this commitment he has not even  _ dared  _ to dream of convincing her to give him...!

 

Mouth dry, he watches as Alice turns toward the Queen and whispers, “Tie the knot?”

 

“Yes,” the Queen replies, speaking as if only the three of them are in the room, as if there is no crowd of rubbernecking witnesses only a few steps away. “That is how weddings are done here. A bride and her groom, together, tie a knot in a family sash around them. This – if I am not mistaken – was specifically loomed for the Hightopp heir, was it not, Hatta?”

 

He nods.

 

Satisfied with his mute response, the Queen summarizes, “This is my Favor, such as it is. I can think of nothing else that will benefit you both more. Do you accept?”

 

Tarrant stiffens and glances at Alice, who also glances at him. “Alice, we may politely decline,” he somehow chokes out around the pressure that is trying to shove his voice box down into his gut.

 

She looks at him and he realizes only after she glances at Mirana’s gently smiling face and then out over the sea of expectant guests that he had somehow neglected to offer her a reassuring smile. Her brows bunch toward the center of her forehead; her breaths are slow, deep, and even; her hand is still steady and her grip strong around his. Alice looks at the Crown, up at him – and, oh what he wouldn’t give to be able to hear her thoughts at this precise moment! – and then she gently pulls her left hand from his right.

 

“We just... tie a knot?” she rasps, her gaze flicking toward the Queen.

 

“Yes.”

 

Alice takes a deep breath and then slides the fringed end of the satin sash through her hand. Tarrant waits, breathless with anticipation, silenced by the tangled mass of all the things he  _ ought  _ to say to stop this, to beg for it, to... He clutches the forked end of the sash in his hand like it is a lifeline.

 

He knows he shouldn’t but he can feel it: he is hoping Alice will find a way out of this for them. A way that does not injure their friendship. A way that will not be an End. A way that will make it  _ possible _ for __ him to marry her... just not  _ here. _ Not  _ now. _

 

When Alice looks up at him, she smiles timidly and holds out her end of the sash in a suddenly unsteady hand. “Shall we?” she murmurs.

 

He nearly sobs. Nearly, but he does not, which is just as well: had he done so he is not sure if the exclamation would have been made from joy... or regret.

 

He cannot deny her, not when she is offering him this: this future.  _ Their _ future.

 

Again, he nods and then presents his end of the sash to her. With her left hand and his right, they carefully intertwine the ends of the sash, laying one end over the over, making a loop, pulling the end through, tugging it taut and then...

 

“Lords and ladies of the White Court,” the Queen announces. “Alice Louisa Kingsleigh and Tarrant Hightopp... have Tied The Knot!”

 

And then, to the sound of (perhaps reluctant) applause, Alice braces both hands on the pedestal, leans over the Crown... and kisses him.

  



	15. The Honeymoon Suite, Part 1

Alice Kingsleigh had not woken up that morning intending to get married. In fact, she had woken up intending to tell Tarrant Hightopp to keep his high-handed and uninvited claims to  _ her _ schedule to himself.

  
As she sits across from him at the table that occupies the balcony of the suite of rooms the Queen had insisted they use for this – their first night spent together as husband and wife – Alice marvels: This Morning... seems like a lifetime ago.

  
What had happened? Yet even as she asks herself that question, Alice already knows the answer. Tarrant had happened. He has always had a gift for presenting her with the unexpected. Today had been no different. He had come for her, at the Lobster Quadrille. And then he had run from her on the balcony. He had sat beside her at dinner, growled at her and then made her laugh. He had nearly turned away from her and left her standing on the platform in the Gilded Hall – just as she had done to Hamish Ascot – and it had not been until he ’d consented to touch the Crown that she had understood why.

  
The man Loves her. The strength and breadth and depth of it had stolen her breath away. There had been so much tangled up with that emotion she could barely identify it all, but the Love... that had remained steady, sure, a raging fire or a pulsing tidal wave or a gust of wind... A torrent of Adoration.

  
She had never known it was possible that anyone could...  _ love _ like that. She had never really put all that much faith in love despite her parents’ obvious regard for one another. Somehow, she had given up on it... before she had even known what it was.

  
Tarrant had stood opposite her, submitting to her scrutiny, and had Shown her what Love is.

  
And when the Queen had presented them with the choice of Tying The Knot, Alice had not been able to look into his green, green eyes and turn away. His Love for her... in the mere moments she had felt it, she had allowed it to fill up all of the hollow places in her being. She would have been quite happy to stand there touching the Crown with him until the end of time. Of course, that had not been possible. But then she had stared at the sash that the Queen had unwound from around his top hat and looped over their shoulders. She had considered the two ends. With one knot, he could be hers, this Love of his could be hers to have, to keep, for all time.

  
That moment had illuminated something very... Vital: Alice had realized that she hadn’t even considered marriage as an option for herself. What man would want—truly  _ want _ —a woman such as she? But to be married to a man such as Tarrant...someone who is her friend, who understands her and what she wants...  _ needs! _ Yes, she had thought, maybe marriage to such a man would not be such a horrible thing. In fact, it would be  _ grand! _

  
In that moment of supreme selfishness, she had forgotten what he must have felt from  _ her _ . She knows she does not Love him. She does not feel that soul-searingly pure Adoration for him. But she wants to. She desperately  _ wants  _ to. He deserves that and she wants to be what he deserves. She wants to be Enough. She wants to be Better... for him.

  
So she will  _ try. _

  
And whenever Alice has  _ tried _ she has never  _ not  _ succeeded.

  
Across the private balcony table from her, Tarrant fidgets in his chair, rests his forearms on the tabletop, considers his hands, and then reaches both out to her, palms raised. She smiles as she reaches for him and feels the strength and warmth of his grasp.

  
Safe. Warm. Loved. She feels all of those things. With him.

  
A mere hour ago this simple truth had been concealed behind her shock –  _ What have I done? _ – and her amazement –  _ Tarrant Loves  _ _ ** me... ** _ – and her confusion –  _ But I’ve never wanted to be married! _ (Even though she  _ had  _ suggested eloping, she hadn’t done so in  _ earnest! _ She’d entertained no thoughts whatsoever with regards to becoming his  _ wife _ or taking him as her  _ husband! _ Still, needing his touch as she had,  _ anything _ would have been better than waiting four  _ bloody weeks! _ She had suggested an elopement with the single, solitary goal of winning rights to his bed at the forefront of her mind! She had never really considered what that would mean in the long run! Or even the Morning After!)

  
A mere hour ago, she had stood beside Tarrant with his warm hand resting against the small of her back and the sash still tied loosely around their shoulders as, one after another, the courtiers had politely (although awkwardly) congratulated them; Thackery had tripped over his own toes exclaiming over them; Mally had demanded to know why she hadn’t received a proper invitation; Chessur had publicly declared his Intent to Nap for the next twenty hours; and a host of other friends and familiar faces had found their way to Gilded Hall (with a little help from the frog footmen, she’s sure).

  
A mere hour ago, the music had started. Alice had danced with Tarrant for the first time, had melted into his touch and he had followed her lead (which she seems to have a natural talent for, interestingly enough) and not a word had been spoken between them. Perhaps she had feared it was all a dream and, if she were to disturb its equilibrium in the slightest, she would wake up, alone, in her bed, never having tied a knot in the sash with him, never having leaned over the Crown on the pedestal, pressed her lips to his and felt him sigh against her mouth, never having felt his hands lift to cradle her face as he’d  _ so gently  _ moved his lips against hers, never having felt his Love in the first place or seen the Joy in his smile when she had confessed with nothing more than the silent and strong grip on his fingers:  _ “I want to...” _

  
But this is  _ not _ a dream. She is still here and his hands are still warm beneath hers...

  
A mere hour ago, they had not been married. She had not  _ wanted  _ to be married! To anyone!

  
But now...

  
Now, she feels very differently.

  
Now, they  _ are _ married. He is  _ hers _ now. Now and until the end, whenever that will be. This hero who makes hats and giggles at riddles and wears brass-rimmed spectacles when he reads and Futterwhackens  _ vigorously _ ...

  
This man who Loves her with a depth and breadth that is as astounding as Underland itself had been when she had first discovered it...

  
He is  _ hers. _

_ _   
And she will not be giving him up anytime soon!

  
“Now,” he murmurs, smiling with such quiet radiance, Alice wonders if he’ll start speaking Sunlight. “Tell me your idea, please, Alice.”

  
Yes, right! Her idea. She looks down, suddenly shy and uncertain... and then she reminds herself – this is the Hatter, Tarrant Hightopp, her best friend and the Right Man For Her – and in the last hour  _ he  _ has not changed. Not one bit.  _ She  _ is the one who has changed. And Tarrant will not be able to Get To Know this new Alice unless she  _ becomes _ her, is  _ unashamed _ to be her.

  
Alice looks up and smiles. “It’s quite simple, really. We stay married...  _ and  _ we finish the Courtship.”

  
Tarrant blinks at her. “When you say  _ finish the Courtship _ you mean...?”

  
“Well, no chaperone,” she informs him and then smirks wryly. “ _ If _ you think we can control ourselves for two weeks.”

  
His long-ill-treated fingers twitch and curl around her hands. “Ah, yes... Alice, what you felt from me... when you touched the Crown... I don’t want you to be frightened. I would never... never  _ intentionally _ ... I wouldn’t ever  _ want _ to...”

  
Alice squeezes his hands. “I know. I know you wouldn’t hurt me. I trust you.”

  
He opens his mouth, his brows twitching with concern, closes his lips and swallows. “... I know.”

  
“Yes, I imagine you do.”

  
He takes a deep breath. “So, your proposal is that... We both get what we... I mean...”

  
“I am offering to wait,” she says, blushing. “You promised me four weeks of Courting. I wouldn’t want you to break it... and regret it.”

  
“Oh... Oh!” She watches him think. It’s quite an entertaining process, actually. “Alice...” he says, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.

  
“And I want those two weeks, too. I want... I’d like to... love you. As you do me. I’m sorry I... don’t.”

  
Twin tears roll down his alabaster cheeks in silence.

  
Alarmed, Alice struggles to reassure him. “You said the courtship is meant to open hearts to each other... if it’s possible for them to be opened at all. And I think mine could... I mean, I  _ want  _ it to and as it’s  _ my _ heart there’s absolutely no reason why it should fight me on this point!”

  
He shakes his head, gently interrupting her. Alice is not sure what else she would have said, so the interjection is a welcome one. Tarrant looks down at their hands, reaffirms his grip on hers. “No one has ever offered this to me, Alice. No one has ever  _ tried _ to... has ever  _ wanted  _ to...”

  
“I do,” she assures him. “I may not know what I wish to do with my life, but I know I want this. You. Us. I want this.”

  
Gently, Tarrant pulls her hands toward him until he can press his lips to her knuckles. “Say no more, Alice, please. I Know your heart... and I know  _ you _ . I... understand. And I will not betray your trust. You will not regret this.”

  
Alice has so much more she would like to say, but things are too... tense,  _ intense _ , charged and volatile with heartfelt things. She stands – without the aid of her hands which are still in Tarrant’s warm grasp, a whisper away from his dark lips – and rounds the table. She tugs gently on Tarrant’s fingers, not loosening her grip in the slightest.

  
“It’s late,” she observes. “And it’s been a long day.”

  
“Aye.” He agrees simply.

  
Alice supposes she could try to sum it up, all the good and the bad that has occurred since that morning, but she feels suddenly very... tired.

  
“I shall wait here while you...” He pauses, clears his throat and Alice watches as his eyes dart around the balcony in search of words. “Er, change into your usual sleep... wardrobe.”

  
Which she will gladly do, however...

  
“I’ll need your assistance,” she warns him and he glances up, startled. “This dress,” she explains with brevity before he can protest. “But, if you’d rather not... yourself, I suppose we could send for a maid...”

  
“I... It’s fine,” he eventually declares, then takes a deep breath and stands. Alice escorts him over to the dressing screen in the room. Someone had already laid out her nightgown and house robe for her. Glancing around, she can see her hair brush and a few other personal items (including what looks like a tunic and a gingham dress peeping out at her from within the wardrobe, the doors to which had been left ajar) but the majority of her things (and likely Tarrant’s as well) are still in their respective rooms.

  
Alice gives his hand a squeeze before she turns and presents him with the puzzling minefield of buttons and laces that stretch down her spine.


	16. The Honeymoon Suite, Part 2

“This is an atrocity!” Tarrant exclaims, observing the fastenings for the first time. “Whoever  _ trussed  _ you up like this?!”

  
“Molta,” Alice replies, not bothering to hide her grin.

  
“Ah. A dodo. Of course,” he mutters, his fingers working quickly. “It’s a wonder that they haven’t managed to over-complicate themselves into extinction.”

  
“They are,” Alice says, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder at him as laces are tugged loose and buttons smuggled back through their buttonholes. “Extinct, I mean. Above.”

  
“Somehow, I am not terribly surprised.”

  
She snorts. “They say it’s because they lacked the intelligence necessary to survive, to adapt to a new predator. They were quite easy game for marksmen to hunt, I heard.”

  
“Hunted to extinction,” he parrots. “And by men who mark, no less. That shall not happen here. Underlandian dodos, despite their fondness for unnecessary complications, are quite well-endowed intellectually. Why, when Uilleam was chaperoning Bayard and Bielle, I heard he was quite heartbroken when their Key appeared and they insisted on leaving the library.”

  
“The Luckluster Library?” she checks, surprised.

  
“Of course. It’s the only library suited for Courting.”

  
“But how could two bloodhounds get to the books? They haven ’t any hands! ”

  
She feels several gentle tugs at the middle of her back; Tarrant is half-finished with his task.

  
He giggles. “Alice! You’ve forgotten already! The Queen mentioned that the library is different for every Courting pair!”

  
“Oh, yes. She did.” Although, considering the circumstances at the time and all that has happened since then, she thinks she can be forgiven for allowing that detail to slip her mind. “So,” she continues when the following silence becomes more and more awkward as the tugs and pulls and coaxings work downward, no doubt revealing the fact that she had declined to wear a corset today... as usual. At least her shrift still covers her skin... Still, the fabric of it is  _ awfully _ sheer...

  
Alice clears her throat and tries again. “So, how many other couples have completed the Courting?”

  
“That you are acquainted with?” he confirms after a moment. 

  
She nods. 

  
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His fingers continue their convoluted path, unthreading ribbons and poking at buttons. “I’m afraid I am only aware of Bayard and Bielle... It is quite... rare... for a couple to successfully complete the Courting. As I mentioned. Earlier. To-day. In fact, my own parents courted for nigh on three years before they wed.” 

  
“Three years?!” 

  
“’Twas short by comparison to many others of my clan.” 

  
Alice has no reply to that. She is considering the Queen’s delight at their progress. Delight which is beginning to take on a whole new meaning and significance for her. 

  
“Outside of Outlanders,” Tarrant volunteers, “’tis rare for courtships to be completed. Lengthy as they often are.” 

  
“But it’s a custom... or it was? A custom of your family?” 

  
“Aye. No matter how long it took, the courtship was always done afore a couple wed.” 

  
Alice has no reply to that. Considering what Tarrant had just told her... well, their Coutship must seem indecently short to him! 

“Nearly finished,” he assures her, apparently for the sole purpose of pushing away the silence.

  
Alice sighs.  “This is why I prefer a tunic and breeches,” she grumbles.

  
His fingers pause just as they reach the small of her back. “You... oh. Oh! Yes, I suppose, in light of our... understanding, this is most inappropriate.”

  
He can ’t have that many more laces to untie or still-buttoned buttons to free, but Alice hears herself disagree. She is not ready for him to move away yet. She rather likes this moment, awkwardness aside.  “No! What I meant was...” What  _ had  _ she meant? “I... Well, generally, I ’d rather not require help as if I’m a child incapable of dressing herself. In this case... I do not mind at all. Although, as you mentioned, in light of our understanding, I  _ should. _ I should mind, I mean.”

  
“Yes. I should as well,” he concedes. His fingers resume their wrestling with the gown’s fastidiously fastened fastenings.

  
This new silence that seeps into the air between them is Different. It is charged with something very much like expectation, like possibilities. There is nothing to distract her from those possibilities and Alice thinks of how easy it would be for Tarrant to lean forward until his breath caresses her bare neck. In less than a moment, he might reach down, grab fistfuls of her skirt, press himself against her... She remembers feeling him moving – thrusting – against her at the Berrying, that part of him hard and swollen within his trousers... It had made her entire body blossom with heat. She feels that warmth again now, shimmering out from her core, from between her legs and deep within her belly, in waves of Want.

  
She forces herself to stop thinking it. There will be time for those sensations later. Later!

  
“There you are... Or, rather, your shrift. There. Er, now. Yes. Fine, good. I’ll just... give you a moment.”

  
She dares to look over her shoulder at him now, to see his eyes and record the fact that he is staring at where her gown gapes open in the back. And, is it her imagination or is his right eye slowly turning from green to red? From the outer ring of the iris inward?

  
“Thank you,” she whispers. The sound of her voice seems to snap him out of his trance.

  
“Yes, yes! Thank you. You’re welcome. I’ll take a moment on the balcony, I think.” She watches as he does just that... crossing the room at a rather hurried pace.

  
Alice hastens to get changed. She dresses for bed as she normally would. (They are married but that is no reason for her to suddenly decide to wear her uncomfortable underwear beneath her nightgown. Nothing will happen tonight... unfortunately.) She takes down her hair and brushes it out. Not tonight, perhaps, not when all of this is so new and uncertain and tremulous, but perhaps another night, she might ask him if he would mind brushing out her hair for her. Yes, it is a contradiction to her earlier statement of disliking assistance with her daily toilet, but in this case... in the case of that assistance coming from Tarrant... She feels Differently.

  
She washes her face and, checking to make sure that her robe is securely fastened over her nightgown, she steps out onto the balcony. She stands next to him, just as she had earlier that day, just as she had so long ago when there had been a Jabberwocky that required slaying.

  
“What are you thinking?” she asks softly when his expression continues to shift and change but he does not acknowledge her presence.

  
“I’m thinkin’ abou’ hauw much I luv ye,” he whispers, “an’ hauw frightened I am o’ all the ways I could...”

  
She reaches out and takes his arm. “Everything is fine. And, in two weeks, it will be even better. I promise.”

  
He turns and looks at her, leans toward her, and presses his lips to hers, all in one smooth motion. She leans into the touch but he is already retreating. “Thank you, Alice,” he whispers on a note of finality and she forces herself to not insist on more than what he had just given her.

  
“My pleasure.” Incomplete as it is...

  
His giggle is as sudden as it is strained, a sound that escapes him before he can intervene and reroute it. “And mine as well,” he admits, his lips twitching upward in a smile.

  
And then he notices her state of dress.

  
“Alice! What are you doing standing out here without any slippers? Here, come inside. Shall I tuck you in?”

  
“You’re not my father,” she jokes, allowing him to pull her back into the room.

  
“No,” he says, pausing. “I am not.”

  
“I’m glad,” she says, just to clarify the point.

  
He sighs. Alice is mostly sure it is a happy sound. He continues toward the large, canopy bed. Alice stands beside him as he turns down the quilt, blanket, and sheet and fluffs the pillows.

  
“Just one is fine,” she says and he immediately removes the excess, tossing them over his shoulder and onto the sofa on the other side of the room.

  
Finished warming the bed up to her imminent occupancy, he pats the mattress and holds the covers up for her. Grinning, Alice complies and slides between the sheets. She watches as he tucks her in and smoothes her hair gently behind her ears.

  
“Good night, Alice,” he whispers, leaning back and glancing toward the sofa. In that instant, his intentions become perfectly clear.

  
She hastily snakes an arm out and catches his jacket sleeve. “You’re not thinking of sleeping over there, are you?”

  
Tarrant looks up at her, his eyes wide and throat working. “No,” he replies. “I have  _ decided _ on sleeping over there. I expect in a few minutes neither you nor I will be thinking of much at all as Sleep does tend to be a rather solitary sort of fellow. Demands one’s full attention as well. Won’t share a mind with Thought or Thinking.”

  
“But  _ we _ don’t have to be. Solitary, I mean. We’re married and—”

  
He shakes his head a bit frantically. “No, Alice.”

  
“But—”

  
“Please,” he rasps, disentangling his sleeve from her grasp and placing his hand over her mouth. He does not touch her skin, merely hovers his fingers over her lips. Alice leans forward and brashly kisses them.

  
“Please, Tarrant,” she counters and he visibly shudders. “I will behave myself.”

  
He shakes his head again and stands.

  
“You’re really going to make me sleep alone on our wedding night?” If she weren’t so shocked, she would accuse him of being cruel. “Couldn’t you just...?”

  
Tarrant backs away a step. “No, Alice. I’m afraid I... I can’t.”

  
The words on the tip of her tongue order themselves into a plea: he wouldn’t have to stay all night, just until she falls asleep...! Her gaze moves over him in the shadows of the room. He is tense and fearful... and she can’t ignore the slight bulge she doesn’t think she imagines filling out the front of his trousers.

  
She bites back her request. Perhaps another time he will be able to spend a few moments lying beside her in their bed without anything... untoward happening. Unfortunately, tonight is not that time.

  
“Sweet dreams, then,” she murmurs, tucking her arm back beneath the covers.

  
He smiles, relieved, and rewards her with a quick kiss to her forehead. “I shall endeavor to do that very thing. But... ladies first!”

  
“I’m  _ not _ a lady,” she grumbles.

  
He giggles. “More so than  _ I _ am!”

  
She snorts. “And yet, once upon a time, I remember you calling me a  _ wee little boy! _ ”

  
“Did I?” he inquires with what appears to be honest surprise. “I was quite mistaken, in that case. Why-ever would I say such a thing? One might think I was trying to throw a Bluddy Behg Hid off the scent of the  _ wonderfully _ aromatic Alice sitting right beside her!”

  
“Well,” she replies, grinning widely, “I don’t know how  _ many  _ people would think that... but this one finds it very plausible.”

  
He giggles. “I’m glad.”

  
“Me, too. Thank you, Tarrant. For...” Her throat slams shut before she can finish the thought. Luckily, Tarrant does not need her to.

  
He reaches out and tweaks a lock of hair behind her shoulder. “Pleasurable dreams, Alice,” he bids her. And then she snuggles down into the too-large, too-cold bed as he crosses the room and begins making up his own bed on the sofa. He doffs his hat – which once more has the salmon-colored Hightopp heirloom sash wrapped around it – shrugs out of his jacket, unties his ascot, toes off his shoes and lays down.

  
“You could remove your waistcoat as well,” she suggests, making him startle.

  
“Alice! Why were you...? Well, watching someone undress themselves is quite...!” And then he sighs, giggling. “Muchy,” he concludes and then sits up and, with a blur of fingers, divests himself of his vest. “Pleasant night, Alice,” he says decidedly and then rolls over, presenting his back to her.

  
Alice relents. “Good night, Tarrant.” With determination, she closes her eyes and summons Sleep.  



	17. An Early Morning Errand

He wakes very early (or rather, it would be more accurate to say that when the sun had began to rise over the mountains that even attempting to sleep had no longer had any point to Tarrant, so he ’ d risen for the day). Folding the blankets neatly and setting them, along with his mountainous pile of pillows, on one end of the sofa, he ’ d given a sideways glance to the bed. 

 

Golden Alice hair spills out across her pillow. Treading softly, Tarrant approaches her – Alice ’s... his  _ wife’s –  _ bedside , smoothes his hand over her hair. She hadn ’ t plaited it the night before; it should have been in a terrible tangle now and likely would be if not for the pillow ’s obvious regard for her . Still, there ’s the chance that it will tangle before she wakes. This is his excuse for  stroking her hair twice more before he forces himself to retreat. Tarrant watches her sleep and fights against the pull that beckons him close to her, to crawl on the bed and press his body against hers – she would feel so warm and soft and relaxed with sleep – and press his lips to her neck...

 

Clearly, Help is going to be needed if he is going to survive the morning with his promise intact. 

 

Sneaking over to the desk in the corner, he quietly inks the pen and jots a quick note, then steals to the doorway. He opens it and is reassured to find the frog footman he ’ d been expecting to see there. As the suite is rather well-secluded and there are no pull cords installed for calling for service, a member of the Queen ’s staff must be on hand at all times. 

 

Tarrant gives the creature a sympathetic smile and, handing him the note, he requests, “Would you see that Chessur Cat gets this as soon as is possible?” The frog nods uncomfortably, and Tarrant shuts the door before he can see him begin to hop away. It would be best if he at least maintained the illusion to himself that there was someone just outside the door.

 

Less than a quarter hour later, Chess mists into being, as cautiously as Tarrant has ever seen him  corporealize himself. Upon realizing that neither he nor Alice are indecently clothed nor involved in intimate activity, (in fact, Tarrant is tensely sitting in the armchair by the bed, watching each soft rise and fall of Alice ’ s breath, listening to her endearing little whistling snores) the Cat fully forms. 

 

“Oh, like that, is it?” Chessur asks.

 

“Please keep your voice down, Chess. Alice is sleeping.” The woman in question shifts under her covers, and Tarrant says, “Why don ’ t we adjourn to the sitting room?” 

 

The Cat nods his assent, and together they tip-toe (Tarrant tip- toes; Chessur simply floats) to the next room. 

 

“My time as your chaperone is at an end, Tarrant. You are married; my part in this convoluted and utterly unnecessary bipedal mating ritual is  _ thankfully  _ at an end .” 

  
Tarrant hates to beg; he especially hates to direct his pleas to such a smug creature as a Cheshire Cat. But if Alice ’ s suggestion is to work... If they are to complete their Courtship without...

 

“Please, Chessur? We would not require your presence at all times. Just in the mornings.”

 

“Has the Champion kicked you out of her bed already, Tarrant?” the Cat teases, but he doesn ’ t rise to the bait.

 

“We ’ ve...mutually decided to finish our Courtship before going... further.” 

 

Chess laughs until he sees the look on his face. “Oh. You are  _ serious _ .” 

 

“Completely.” He is fully as Serious as he is a Hatter.

 

“And this was a mutual decision, you say?” The Cat is no doubt recalling all of the instances where Alice had been rather determined to enjoy an uninterrupted private moment with Tarrant and without the presence of their chaperone. 

 

Sighing, he says, “Yes, as I said, completely mutual.” 

 

The Cat says nothing for several beats of Tarrant ’ s heart. Then, in a low, grudging rumble, inquires, “What do you need of me for to-day?”

 

Tarrant ’ s shoulders slump in relief. “Stay until breakfast?” 

 

Blinking, Chessur informs him, “Tarrant, that is several hours from now.” 

 

“I ’ m aware of that. But there is something I need to do, and should Alice wake and I am not here...”

 

“Ah. Yes. Fine... I accept.” 

 

“Thank you, Chess.” 

 

“Don ’t thank me. I shall be enjoying a bit peace a quiet with you out and about. And as I’ve never been  _ invited _ to the Royal Honeymoon Suite...”

 

“Yes, yes. The chance for a nap of a lifetime, I ’m sure...”

 

The Cat ’ s cooperation secured, Tarrant goes to the washroom, rapidly strips his clothing and brusquely scrubs his body in a tepid bath. He exits fully dressed, right down to his tightly laced shoes. 

 

“I will be back shortly,” he tells Chessur.

 

“Take your time. I will be here,” the Cat assures him, already yawning.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

“Your Majesty.” 

 

“Hatta!” Mirana could not look more astonished to see him than if he ’ d entered her chambers wearing nothing whatsoever with a rose between his teeth. Shoving aside that disturbing mental picture (she is a wonderful Monarch, but only one woman possesses the ability to move him – and has done so rather too well for quite some time – and she has not the delicate, icy beauty of the woman in front of him, but that forged of sterner stuff) he steps fully inside, latching the Queen ’s parlor  door behind him. 

 

“I wished to speak with you.” 

 

Recovering with admirable quickness, Mirana draws her robe closed about her nightdress and nods regally. “I am at your service, Tarrant. Is...everything...alright?” Her dark brows draw together in concern, and despite his irritation with her most unfounded assumption, Tarrant rushes to reassure her.

 

“Alice is fine! She is resting. Chessur is there, in case she should wake before I return.” 

 

“Well then, if you will forgive my saying so, Hat—Mr. Hightopp, I do not understand why you are here, and not enjoying your honeymoon.” 

 

That is a lie—Tarrant can see it by the way the Queen ’s eyes shift off to one side when she speaks. He steps closer, tie flaring in agitation. 

 

“You knew that Alice and I had a misunderstanding earlier yesterday. You knew she was not ready for such a step as marriage, and yet you forced her into a situation where, once again, she d ’nae feel she ’ad a choice in tha matter!” 

 

“Alice could have said  _ no _ , Tarrant. The fact that she didn’t speaks of her affection for you. Did you not each touch the Crown and Know each other? Could you not feel the depth of regard she holds for you?”

 

_ _ _ But she doesn’t love me! _ —the admission is on his lips, ready to be uttered, but he can’t.  _ Won't _ . 

 

That is something that is just for he and Alice, something that he will not speak of outside of their marriage.

 

“I must respectfully request that any such urges you have in the future regarding Alice and I that you confirm their... appropriateness with us beforehand, your Majesty,” he says instead. 

 

She sighs. “You make each other so very happy, Tarrant. I could not sit back and allow such a precious gift to be lost to Underland.” She pauses, adds, “I could not let you lose each other due to a misunderstanding.” 

 

“All the same, your Majesty, I will thank you to refrain in the future.” 

 

Mirana nods, brown eyes watering. “If I caused either one of you any distress, Hatta, that was not my intent. Last night you both seemed so pleased, I thought...”

 

“We were.” Thinking that he should not speak for Alice, Tarrant corrects himself with, “I was. I am. But it should have been... different.” He will not enumerate all the ways that he would have changed the day; he can not regret all that happened, as it unites he and Alice, but he still wishes...

 

“Good day, your Majesty.” Bowing, he exits the Queen ’s chambers and returns to the suite, where breakfast (littered with Cat hair at this point, Tarrant highly suspects) and perhaps a fully conscious Alice –  _ wife! _ – are waiting for him.


	18. Breakfast

Alice rises from bed, surveying the room even before her feet have touched the floor. 

  
Tarrant is no longer  lying on the sofa across from her; instead the bedding he’d used is neatly folded and stacked on one end, in preparation for tonight, she supposes. She can’t help the feeling of disappointment that nearly overcomes her at his absence. Still, this is better. Had he been in here when she had awakened, and had he been lying there, sleeping soundly... she no doubt would have been tempted to move closer to him, caress his face or kiss his temple or something equally capable of leading to some forbidden More.

 

She would have liked the opportunity to have watched him sleep, though. Last night, she’d thought that if she stayed awake just long enough, she’d be able to see him in slumber.

 

Instead Alice had listened as he had tossed, turned, and mumbled into the sofa cushions, until she had been unable to bear the sounds of his distress any longer.

 

“Can’t sleep?” she’d called out softly. Movement from the sofa had abruptly ceased. A guilty silence had filled the air. Then he had sighed and admitted:

 

“No. The excitement of the day…”

 

But Alice hadn’t believed that was the entire story. She had waited in silence, knowing that if she did, he would eventually fill that silence.

 

Tarrant had not  disappointed her. “And… our Lock is ready. For the Doors to our Hearts.” A rustling had told her he was turning once more, and she ’d wondered just how uncomfortable that sofa must be. 

 

“Where?” Alice had never thought to ask that question before, and felt the shame of it. 

 

“The West Wing. Fourth Floor. The Round Tower. Humbert told me the morning of the Hedgehog Chase that it was ready.”

 

He’d not said the words accusingly, but Alice could still feel the sting of guilt pierce her chest. Their Lock had been ready that long? And he’d not spoken a word to her of it.  No, wait...he  _ had _ mentioned it to her, when she’d been speaking to Sir Geoffrey in the corridor, but her dander had been so high that she hadn’t bothered to really listen to what it was that he’d been saying... had that been only yesterday? 

 

But why had he not said anything before that moment? Why had it taken his Jealousy (for Alice can recognize, now, that is what had driven him to dictate to her in such a manner) for him to even mention to her that the Lock had prepared? Could it be that he’d been waiting for  _ her _ to ask him about it? That made a horrible sort of sense... especially after feeling the depth and breadth of his emotions pouring forth from the Crown. He’d wanted her to want to know about it, to take the initiative to ask him, to Care enough to ask…

 

There is nothing she could have said that would have been a sufficient apology. To offer those words to him then would have been an insult, a salve for her own hurting conscious; it would not have benefited him in the least. Instead, she had said, “Would you like to go to-morrow?”

 

Tarrant had been silent so long that Alice had suspected that he may have drifted into slumber, after all. But then he’d said, very softly, “I should like that very much, my Alice.” 

 

No longer able to keep her eyes open, Alice had at last allowed them to slip closed, had said, for the second time that night, in a voice even she had recognized as thick with sleep, “Goodnight, Tarrant.”

 

“Goodnight, Alice, my dear,” he’d said back to her, and just as sleep claimed her, she thought she could hear him add the words, “My wife…” in a hushed and disbelieving tone.

 

And so, despite her intentions, she had  _ not _ seen him with his eyes closed and tension gone and relaxed in the warmth of his dreams. But p erhaps tonight…

 

Yes, tonight, she  _ will _ see him sleep. 

 

She walks over to her wardrobe to examine her two available outfits, one of which being the gingham dress she’d worn to the Lobster Quadrille the day before. (She’ll have to find something to change into before they go to their Door, that’s for sure! She can’t walk around all day in…in…this thing and its horrid memories!) Alice dresses quickly in the blue gown she ’d worn the night before and ties her hair back with a hastily knotted ribbon. Scraggles of hair escape, but it is the best she can do on her own, and she is not about to invite someone else into their honeymoon suite! Not today, the morning after the first night that they’d spent together!

 

Not that they’d spent it as all the silly, gossiping courtiers had no doubt  _ thought _ they had, but it had still been time for them. Time for just he and she. Alice rather likes the idea of it being just for him and for her; the newly acknowledged possessiveness towards Tarrant positively purrs at the thought of them sitting together, no chaperone caterwauling at them, where they can simply laugh and joke and be themselves without the expectations of others hanging over them! They can—

 

Rounding the corner into their sitting area, Alice is stunned to see Chessur in the chair opposite Tarrant, the chair that she’s imagined herself sitting in not a moment before, sipping tea out of what should be  _ her _ cup, eating  _ her _ delicacies! And worst of all, most unpardonable of all, occupying the attention of  _ her _ husband!

 

“Chessur,” she says, almost unforgivably churlish. 

 

“Alice,” both Cat and Hatter announce at the same time. Tarrant stands, walks over to her, leads her back to the table, shoos Chessur from her seat, pours her tea and hands her a buttered piece of bread, all in the span of a few moments. Her head is quite dizzy from such a flurry of activity. Could Tarrant be… a morning person? In her current frame of mind, with Sleep still clinging to her eyes, her stomach growling, and the unexpected company, it seems an almost unpardonable offense.

 

“Are you ready to go to the tower?” Tarrant asks brightly, biting into a heavily buttered piece of brown bread. 

 

Holding up a hand to beg for a moment of silence, she carefully picks up her tea cup, takes a long sip, lowers it, and then looks across the table at her husband. He takes another bite of his brown bed, watching her through his tamed brows. Blinking, Alice sees that they’ve been carefully combed back, and that his hair, still dark and wet from his morning ablutions, brushes his shirt collar. She can feel her tongue dart out and touch her upper lip, and scolds herself for acting like a child that has just spotted a sweet. 

 

“I was going to ask you if I could borrow a pair of trousers and a shirt,” Alice says, her thoughts still moving sluggishly. Another gulp of tea, a sigh, and then she opens her eyes to see both Chessur and Tarrant staring at her. She hadn’t answered the question, had she?

 

“Oh! I mean, I don’t have anything to wear that is not…” She does not particularly want to mention the stained and juice-splattered dress currently hanging in their wardrobe—when Tarrant is occupied, she’s going to  _ burn _ that dress!—and says instead, “I don’t have anything to wear.” 

 

Chessur grins salaciously, the corners of his mouth positively curling circles around themselves. “Tarrant, you  _ dog _ …and here you led me to believe that you and our young Champion had not—”

 

“Yes! Of course!” Clearing his throat and giving Chessur a look that  communicates very clearly that if one more word is uttered unpleasant things will occur, Tarrant says, “I thought you were provided with an outfit to wear last night, Alice. In fact, you are wearing it right now.”

 

Alice thinks that Tarrant is being particularly generous with his use of the word 'wearing'. The gown, when laced, buttoned, and tied, is lovely indeed. As it sits on her frame now, though...the back gapes open, one shoulder or the other continues to insist on sliding down her shoulders, and a disturbing breeze she had not felt the night before whilst donning the dress tickles the backs of her knees. It is only staying on her person through the creative use of a length of ribbon that must have fallen out of Tarrant's pocket and, Alice is convinced, her own sheer force of will. 

 

“I don’t particularly wish to wear my wedding dress whilst moving items from my rooms to here. I suppose I could, though, if you’d lace me back up?” 

 

Setting down the teacup he’d lifted, Tarrant  sits back, head tilted to the side. “From your rooms to here?” he says, ignoring her comment about lacing. Alice hopes he doesn’t take it as a tempting statement—she is trying to be good this morning! Feeling awkward, she continues with: 

“Well… yes. We didn’t discuss it, but I thought… these rooms are ours for the next two weeks, are they not? I suppose… I could continue to stay in my rooms, and you in yours, but…”

 

“No!” A strong hand reaches out and grasps her own. In the early morning light, Alice can see the red-gold hairs that dust his knuckles, the small creases that are not just from work or chemicals, but from age as well. “That is… no. If you wish to remain in this suite, I would… I would like that as well. Very much so!” 

 

“That’s settled then!” Alice gulps, wondering  _ how _ she could possibly be aroused just the sight of the man’s  _ knuckles _ . “We’ll each go to our own rooms this morning, move whatever we may require for the next few weeks here…” She dishes a delicious looking egg onto her plate followed by two slices of toasted bread as she continues, “Do you want to meet again for lunch, and then go to investigate our Rooms?”

 

“That sounds equitable, my dear wife,” Tarrant says, then pauses, knife poised to slice his tomato. He  sets down the utensil. “I’m sorry, Alice, I… that was presumptuous of me to say...”

 

Warm under her hand, his sleeve almost seems to be a living part of him. She strokes it with her thumb. “You needn’t ever apologize for calling me by an endearment, Tarrant. Most especially one that is true.” Bright, bright green eyes stare into her own, unblinking. He half-stands, begins to lean forward, and Alice has just enough time to wonder if he’ll kiss her, and if he does, where, when an inelegant snort breaks the moment.

 

Chessur. She’d forgotten about him.

 

“If you two are going to go your separate ways, then my presence is no longer required. Same time to-morrow morning, Tarrant?” 

 

Before Alice can raise a protest, Tarrant is agreeing. “Yes, thank you, Chess.” 

 

“Until then,” Chessur grins. “Ta-ta!” And, with a nod, dissipates.

 

“To-morrow?” She raises a brow. 

 

“Erm. Yes. I thought that… perhaps…  I think, in the morning, it would be… best… if there were another party present.” 

 

Still not grasping his meaning, Alice furrows her brows, frowns. “I’m not sure I follow you, Tarrant.” 

 

“Perhaps I am not being a very good leader.” Reaching for the pudding and avoiding her eyes, Tarrant says, “In the mornings, men often… that is, their bodies… well, I should not speak for all  men, but I…”

 

Alice thinks she understands. 

 

“Oh!” It seems she had been correct; Tarrant  _ is _ a morning person. Her curiosity wrestles with her promise to not tempt Tarrant, and loses, for the time being. “ _ Every _ morning?” she asks. 

 

A flush on his cheeks, Tarrant picks up his water glass, lifts it, and mumbles something that could be understood as an affirmative. 

 

They both sit in silence now thick was a certain level of expectation for several tense minutes. Then Alice stands, and says, “Perhaps having Chessur here in the mornings... would be for the best, then.” She walks to his side of the table, busses his cheek, and says, “I am going to get started on my errands so we ’l l have the whole of the afternoon. Do you mind if I borrow your extra shirt and trousers for now?” 

 

“You now have access to whatever I possess that you may wish,” Tarrant assures her with a smile so handsome that she rewards it with another kiss. “Well, except...”

 

Alice just laughs. “Except, yes.  For now.” 

 

Tarrant shudders, and Alice marvels at the power she wields over him as she issues that Promise between them.

 

“Fourteen days, my wife.”

 

“Yes,” she agrees. “Fourteen days...”


	19. A Necessary Conversation

Alice really  _ does _ plan on going to her rooms and having her clothing and toiletries moved to the suite, but she had another goal in mind first: A talk with the White Queen. On her journey through the Castle corridors, she prepares a list of things she wishes to discuss with the monarch; after the oddly delightful morning with Tarrant (even with Chessur there, and even though they hadn ’ t... the night before, it had still been... such a  _ wonderful _ morning, with glances and small touches and the occasional bout of laughter and—!) she is finds herself in the odd position of having to remind herself exactly why she is upset with the Queen ’ s machinations. It works almost too well; by the time she reaches her destination, she wouldn't have been surprised if she ’ d been told that steam was pouring out of her ears. 

 

She knocks on the doors to the Royal Suite (a frog footman had helpfully informed her that her Majesty is nursing the effects of too many libations the night prior) and waits. The door opens after a lengthy pause, and, were she not in such a high temper, Alice likely would have laughed at the expression on Mirana ’ s face.

 

“May I enter, your Majesty?”

 

“Of course you may, Alice,” the Queen says mechanically, stepping back and holding the door open wide. 

 

Alice enters, trounces to an over-stuffed ottoman, and sits. “I am very upset with you,” she informs her, crossing her arms over her chest. 

 

Gaze flicking from the loose trousers and the much-too large shirt to the snarls Alice hadn ’ t been able to completely pick from her hair, the Queen floats over, hands raised, and sinks down into the opposite chair. 

 

“You think I behaved in a high-handed, inconsiderate manner, and would have appreciated my lack of involvement in the Courtship between Tarrant and yourself.” 

 

Alice blinks. In one sentence, the Queen had succinctly summed up the totality of her irritation. “Well... yes,” she says, watching Mirana warily. 

 

A sad smile flits across the woman ’ s face, and she sighs, her shoulders slumping. “I suppose stating that I believed my actions to be to both your and Tarrant ’ s benefit would be useless?” 

 

“Utterly,” Alice agrees. 

 

“Then what shall I do, Alice?” 

 

Tartly, Alice says, “You could begin by apologizing.” 

 

“Apologizing!” 

 

“Yes. It is generally what people do when they are sorry.” Despite herself, Alice ’ s mouth twitches in amusement. It seems the White Queen is unfamiliar with the concept of apologizing for one ’ s actions. 

 

Mirana ’ s mouth opens, closes, and opens again, but no sound comes out. Alice makes a show of settling in for a bit of a wait.

 

“I ’ m...sorry.” 

 

The word sorry is slurred and strange tripping off the Queen ’ s tongue, but Alice appreciates the amount of effort it must have taken the woman to utter such a foreign word. 

 

“I ’l l accept your apology.... if you just answer for me one thing.” 

 

“Anything, Alice!”

 

“Why did you do it? Why arrange things so that we could receive a Royal Favor? Was the plan all along to marry us?”

 

Mirana rises, arms lifting, and begins to pace about the room. Watching the White Queen pace is like watching trained dancers float across a stage in Above; what had been drilled into them through precise, long hours of training is a nervous gesture for the Queen.

 

“I had arranged the Royal Hedgehog Chase in hopes that you and Tarrant would win the Favor, yes. But I did not do it with the intent of marrying you, no. That came to be from the suggestion of a concerned mutual friend.”

 

“A concerned friend?” Alice echoes. Who could have suggested such a thing? Bayard? Chessur? Mally?

 

“Yes. Beniford saw... well, he saw what you and Tarrant meant to each other, and then he saw the strain the Courtship was putting on your relationship, and after the Lobster Quadrille...”

 

_ Beniford? _

 

_ Who in Underland is  _ _** Beniford? ** _

 

“Who is Beniford?” Alice cuts in, confused. 

 

“Oh! Beniford is the castle, Alice.” 

 

“The... castle. The castle... saw...” A series of images flashes through Alice ’ s mind, images of her and Tarrant in the Library, of that time she ’ d pulled him into a closet and been discovered by Chessur, and of oh-dear-sweet-Underland the hat workshop—!

 

“After he told me what was happening, I couldn ’ t not do something, Alice. And you and Tarrant had won the favor. It seemed the perfect solution.”

 

Closing her eyes, Alice begs for strength, and says, “The castle sees...” She could not get her brain to move beyond that point. “Why has he never spoken to me?” she asks.

 

“Beniford is only able to communicate to me. It is part of being a Queen of Underland: If the Queen is true to her land and people, many creatures and objects speak to her that would not speak to others. Some particularly stubborn trees, this Castle...”

 

“I ’ m honestly not sure how I feel about that.” 

 

“I would never use it to pry into your privacy, Alice, truly. Beniford came to me with this concern. I did not ask him.”

 

“Well... alright, then.” Alice says, mollified. “Please tell Beniford that I do not appreciate his meddling, either.” 

 

Mirana nods. “He knows, Alice, and he apologizes as well.” 

 

Looking down at the arms still crossed over her chest, Alice says, voice softer, “I am sorry that I can not stay longer, but I should return to Tarrant soon, and I still need to get my clothing from my rooms.” 

 

“Would you like a footman to bring them round for you?”

 

Smiling, Alice says, “That would be very lovely, Mirana. Thank you.” 

 

“It is the least I could do, Alice. Really. Do not worry. I shall arrange for both yours and Tarrant ’ s items to be taken to the suite post-haste.” 

 

Rising, Alice awkwardly curtsies to the Queen, and then takes her leave.


	20. Alice's Room

“Fourth floor, round tower, west wing. Here we are!” Tarrant comes to a stop in front of a tall set of  doors very reminiscent of the entryway to the Luckluster Library. Instead of double door handles, though, a single doorknob rests in the very center, the Lock of Hair set underneath that. It’s an almost perfect blend of Alice’s smooth blonde curls and Tarrant’s frizz, and much smaller than what Alice thought it was going to be. 

  
She turns to her husband, a question on her lips, but he is in the process of lifting the Key away from his neck. He looks at the Key in his hands, to the door, and then to Alice.

 

“Let me go first,” she offers, reaching out and taking the Key from his grasp, their fingers brushing. 

  
“Are you certain?” he asks, brows twitching. Alice looks into his eyes, nods. 

 

“I’m certain,” she says. “Just tell me what to do?” 

 

“Here,” he steps behind her and directs her closer to the door, curls his body around hers, wraps his arm around hers, his hand atop her own. Together they guide the Key to the Lock. 

 

“Just insert it… like so,” he says, his breath stirring her hair. “And turn it, one direction or the other; either left or right. Whichever direction you do not take, I shall.” 

 

“Just… turn it?” Alice confirms. Feeling Tarrant nod behind her, she takes a deep breath, and nudges it to the right. A tenseness she hadn’t been aware he’d been holding on to leaves her husband’s body, and for the first time, she realizes that he hadn’t been certain they’d be able to open the Door.

 

She turns in the circle of his arms. “I’ll see you soon,” she says.

 

“Before you know it,” he assures, pressing a swift kiss to her lips. Alice takes a step back, hovering in the open doorway. Then she stands on her tiptoes, grasps either side of Tarrant’s head, lowers it to press a kiss between his brows, and quickly goes through the door.

 

She stumbles into darkness, her heart thudding against its cage of lungs and ribs. There is no click of the lock, no slow closing of the door. As soon as her body is completely past the barrier, she is engulfed in darkness. Cursing the fashionable heels she’d decided to don that day instead of any of her numerous pairs of practical slippers (this had seemed to be an Event to Tarrant, and she’d thought to look her best) as she skitters onto slick, hard floor, she pin-wheels her arms until finally she finds traction in the form of what feels to be a rug. 

 

After this experience she walks gingerly, feeling her way along until she comes to a wall. From there she pats and moves about carefully, searching for something, anything with which to light the space.

 

This is supposed to be a room at the Bottom of her Heart, isn’t it? Why then is there nothing but darkness and, apparently, a rug here? She’s encountered no furniture, no paintings, nothing hanging on the walls—none of the things that would comprise a Room. Nor yet has her hand touched pulsating, living flesh, and come away bloody, so she must assume she is not literally in a Heart, either. (One never knew with Underland, did they?) She stops when she comes to what feels like a corner, props herself into it, and takes a deep breath. 

 

“I want to see,” she says, and she feels something almost…  _ disagree _ … with her. There are no words spoken, no music, no chimes, not even a cold breeze…just the feeling that the room is calling her a liar. 

 

“Well, the Bottom of One’s Heart sounds like a frightful thing, when you really think about it,” Alice defends to the empty air. “Who knows what one might find there? Why, I could have bad, evil things lurking in this darkness.” 

 

Once again, she has a feeling seep into her from the room. This feels distinctly like… exasperation. 

 

“If you won’t show me what am I supposed to think?” Alice snaps, feeling very silly for talking to a fancy of her own imagination. “Show me, then!  _ I want to see _ !” 

 

A tiny pinprick of light appears in front of her vision, almost blinding her after such a period of absolute darkness. The light – not a proper light, really, just a wisp of a thing – dances as if directed to by an unfelt breeze or the will of an unseen hand. The Will o’ the Wisp bobs in front of her, once, twice, and then begins to float in a bouncing, unhurried fashion in the opposite direction from which she had been facing. Alice turns and stumbles after it.

 

She walks for what feels like a very long time. It seems she had been incorrect in thinking she had already entered her room; her current location is better described as a hallway, instead.

 

At times the ceiling becomes so low that she has to get on her hands and knees and crawl after the light. Alice fears that the space she is in will narrow to the point where she will get stuck, unable to follow the light further, and unable to turn around to go back the way she ’d come. 

 

Still she continues on, holding her breath in some spots to squeeze through, tumbling down sudden drops when they come, and climbing upwards when the floor inclines. She is starting to become very tired, very thirsty, and  _ very _ cranky with herself for wearing a fancy dress (for Tarrant!) when all she seems to be doing is scrambling around in the dark (by herself! The blighter isn’t even here with her!) after a irritating cheerful ball of light and—!

 

“Where is Tarrant?” she finally exclaims, her arms shaking with exhaustion. The orb pauses, taps the end of her nose, and then rushes forward. The ceiling opens up over her head and Alice hurries to her feet as she runs after the Will o’ the Wisp. 

 

She slams into a hard surface. The breath whooshes out of her as she falls to the ground. The orb swirls in front of her eyes, then goes towards the space she’d run into. Groaning, Alice rolls up onto her knees, watches as the light swirls about in front of something protruding from the wall, and gasps when it slips through the wall underneath said protuberance. 

 

It is another door!

 

Alice dives for the handle, uses it to hoist herself to her feet once more, twists the door open...

 

And winces as she is admitted into a room bathed in low, warm light. A set of wall sconces lit with fat white pillar candles provide this light and, low though it is, it still stings her eyes. Alice can smell tuberose and lavender, and she steps completely in with no hesitation. The room is… surprising. When one is told they’d be seeing the Bottom of One’s Heart, they don’t instinctually think of a calm sitting room with an unlit fireplace and a slight chill in the air. 

 

Plus, there ’ s the Wallpaper.

 

Alice had always thought of wallpaper as an unnecessary luxury, but the walls in this room are positively plastered with it. Large cabbage roses intermingle with twisting vines, their faces frozen in expressions of pleased joy that she’s certainly never seen on any real Underlandian rose. This wallpaper covers the upper half the walls; the lower half is covered with heavy dark wainscoting, battered as if many chairs had been placed along the lengths for several years. Right now, though, only one chair sits against the wall.

 

It is a battered armchair, covered in green velvet. The back extends high enough that should a person sit in it, the top of their head would only rest in the middle. The armrests are worn, the threads of velvet barely holding together under the strain of time. 

 

An empty picture frame, round and gold and heavily ornate, hangs on the wall just behind the chair. Alice walks up to it, touches the edge of the frame, feels that it was carved of wood instead of molded out of plaster, as she’d expected. 

 

A small round table sits beside the chair and to the left of the empty picture frame. A small chipped tea pot and two mismatched (but still blue!) cups and saucers sit upon it. She drifts closer to it; the table looks so familiar. 

  
Hadn’t her mother kept something similar, once, in the second parlor? She’d always admired that table, but it had been chucked when the French style went out of fashion again; from what she can recall, Helen’s brief Moroccan phase had followed that; or had it been Grecian? 

 

Dismissing her mother’s questionable decorating adventures as unimportant at the moment, she continues to explore the small space that is her Heart, notes the shelf of knick-knacks on the wall (candle snuffers? Why on earth would Aunt Imogene’s collection of candle snuffers be  _ here _ ?), the first silhouette Margaret had ever cut of her (she’d lopped off her double’s nose during a sneeze, but that had been just fine with Alice, as she’d been reading  _ Little Women  _ at the time and had been quite disgusted with the way Amy March had been ranting about her nose. Alice had informed Margaret that she’d rather be remembered for having no nose at all, than her vanity over the nose that she had been blessed with!), and there… is that…?

 

Underneath the table sits an old battered top hat, but  _ not _ the top hat with which she’s grown so familiar. No, this one is plain black and made of heavy beaver pelt; the fur is patchy in spots, and the lining, Alice knows, will be half falling out when she turns it over. This is… but Mother had thrown that old thing out years ago, it can’t possibly…

 

_ But this is Underland _ , Alice reminds herself.  _ Of course it can be _ . 

 

She picks the hat up, holds it aloft, turns it this way and that. It appears to be in the same condition exactly as she recalls when she had last looked upon it, right down to the wide cut from an overenthusiastically swung tree branch (wielded by Fiona Chattaway, she recalls with a smile… or had it been Faith?) that had been her mother’s impetus to finally be rid of the dear thing. 

 

“Hrm,” she hums, setting the hat on the seat of the armchair. Taking a moment to simply look at how right that scene is, she then shakes herself and turns her attention to the cold hearth. There is a large pile of wood beside it in a metal cage basket. Where is the coal? Alice hunts for a bucket but can’t find one.

 

“Well, this presents a problem,” she worries her lower lip, then shrugs and picks up a log. She places it on the fire grate. How hard could this be?

 

Standing, she walks over to one of the candles in the sconces, reaches up for the wax pillar, grasps it, and attempts to pull it down... but it sticks fast. She tugs a bit harder, but the candle and the sconce itself refuses to move. Alice huffs, frustrated. There does not appear to be any paper in the room, nothing that she could alight and then take to the fire. But there are sticks, after all! She exerts quite a bit of effort – and strained muscles – over attempting to get the end of one to catch fire on the candle flame but it merely smolders at her... mockingly.

 

After her experimentation with the candles ends in failure, Alice looks everywhere possible for a sparker and tinder. Around the fireplace, on the floor, even in between the wingback’s cushions—nothing. Her search brings her back to the smoldering stick... and sparks another idea. She decides to try rubbing two sticks together, as Hamish had once suggested doing whilst they were young and troublesome. They’d never made an actual fire with his technique, but once she’d seen him manage to make smoke, and that was much closer to a real fire than what Alice would be able to do armed with nothing but a smile and her imagination.

 

Selecting two of the smaller sticks from the kindling, she places one on the floor and holds the other between her hands, and begins rubbing her palms back and forth. Pausing every now and again to blow on the spot where the two sticks meet (as Hamish had seemed to think that was a Very Important step of the whole process), she soon becomes frustrated when her only results to such actions are sore palms and a light head. Alice throws the sticks into the grate, and sits back on her bottom. Arms crossing, she huffs, wondering if her room will just have to be cold, then.

 

The Will o’ the Wisp comes to her once again; the little light seems to be as exasperated with her as the first presence in the dark hallway had been. It bobs and weaves. Alice gestures to the two sticks she’d been rubbing together and glares at the little weaving ball of light. 

 

“Why am I failing at this? What could I possibly be not understanding? All I want to do is bloody well light this tam-fooling fire! Tarrant is supposed to eventually see this room, is he not? I will not have him coming into a cold hearth!”

 

And just like that, flames burst into being around the small log she had placed on the grate. She turns, stares, with her mouth hanging open in a most unladylike manner for moment, and then stands. She stomps her foot.

 

“Of course!” she shouts, hands in the air. “I just screech about wanting it to be nice for Tarrant, and  _ then _ you listen to me?”

 

Another candle appears in the room, this one a great fat white pillar on the table that had looked so much like her mother’s. Alice pauses, a Thought coming to her.

 

“Tarrant,” she says, experimentally. Two more sconces decorate the walls, these on the furthest side of the room. 

 

“Tarrant,” she says again, and a window appears in the west-facing wall. It is night outside, it seems, so the only light it provides is from the twinkling of stars. 

 

“Tarrant,” she says for a third time, becoming quite frightened. She walks up to the window, her hands shaking badly. 

 

There, outside, the sun is rising. 

 

Stepping backward, she shakes her head. Is it her imagination, or is the room… larger, now, as well? She takes another step back, bumps into something, and gives a very embarrassing squeak of alarm. Glad for the moment that there is no one present to see the Champion of Underland sounding more like a Mouse than Mallymkun, she swallows a deep breath and turns around to see what she had bumped into. 

 

Turns, and freezes.  _ That _ had most definitely not been there before. 

 

A dress form sits, looking benign, in the very center of her Heart. Despite the long draped sheet over the form, she can tell it is decorated with… something. What, she is not certain, but the idea of lifting that sheet and discovering what it is fills her both the desire to do it immediately and satisfy her curiosity, and the irrational thought that it needs to stay covered, to stay hidden. The form is picked up, lifted, and dragged to the other side of the room before she really considers her actions. 

 

Placed there, in the only space that is still completely shadowed, the dress form does not inspire such feelings of tightened panic in her chest. She can still feel that emotion there, muscles faintly trembling. 

 

“It is just a sheet over a dress. Stop being so silly and melodramatic and just look, Alice.” 

 

She grasps the bottom edge of the sheet, and before she can talk herself out of it, lifts it up and over the frame, revealing what rests underneath. 

 

A full set of widow’s weeds.

 

They are very proper London weeds; a high-neck collar, long sleeves, sedate train. A pair of delicate black gloves and an unusual lady’s top hat decorated with a mourning veil are included; the gloves are tucked into the front pocket of the dress, and the hat sits atop the form. She takes a step back, swallows, and just as quickly as she’d uncovered it, re-covers the dress, and backs away. Alice tells herself that she had not seen the initials stitched onto the handkerchief that pokes out of the right sleeve, and that she had not recognized the top hat as uniquely Underlandian. 

 

“AKH,” she stutters under her breath. Turning her back on the dress form and all that it silently suggests to her, Alice sees a door shimmer, then solidify, in a space that had formerly been blank wall. It is a welcome distraction, and one that she pounces on.

 

“Hello there,” she greets the door. The handle feels cool and smooth under her palm, and clicks open with little resistance. “Let's see where you lead, shall we?”


	21. Tarrant's Room, Part 1

Tarrant hooks his thumbs into his trouser pockets to keep himself from reaching out to the door, to stop it from closing behind Alice and locking her into her own heart... alone. Not that he fears what she might find there – and with any luck he’ll only be a hop, skip, and a jump away! – but she had looked dreadfully pale and nervous and he had watched her sleep last night and that image of her (looking so young and vulnerable in her slumber) makes him want to protect her despite the fact that this woman had slain a Jabberwocky without any help from him (aside from the one moment she had tumbled and lost her sword, but really that doesn’t count!) and he knows she can take care of herself but he... he...

 

He misses her already.

 

Without permission, his hand reaches out to the door...

 

But too late.

 

It settles back into its frame and the lock clicks. Their Key returns to its up-right and just-inserted position.

 

Tarrant sighs. Now, the only way to ensure Alice – his wife! – is all right is to follow her... indirectly. He redirects his hand to the Key without pausing for thought or breath or courage, and twists it to the left. As it had when Alice had nudged it to the right, it clicks softly and then the door eases open.

 

He steps across the shadowy threshold and allows the portal to close behind him, knowing that once the door has closed his path can only go in one direction: forward. Just like with an actual heart, the path Out can never be the same as the path In. The sound of the door settling into its frame calls forth a gentle light and Tarrant discovers that he is standing in a breezeway. There, on the scratched and scuffed plastered-over earthen wall is a hook. Beside that is a slightly-out-of-fashion hat rack. There is also a humble bench with a shoehorn laid across the worn-at-the-corners cushion.

 

Well. This seems rather straightforward.

 

He removes his hat and hangs it up. He shrugs out of his jacket and places it on the brass hook. He sets aside the shoehorn and takes a seat, unlacing the red strings in his battered shoes. He tucks them under the bench and sits up. As he does, he notices that, to the left, a very solid-looking, aged wooden door has appeared. It is not a rectangular wooden door as it fits snuggly into a stone-block wall into which a doorway with a pointed arch has been masoned.

 

“Hello,” he says to the door. Its brass latches, bolts, and hinges do not reply.

 

“Ah. The strong and silent type,” he deduces.

 

Standing, Tarrant considers the door, then turns around. As he’d suspected, the door through which he had entered – the door with one lock but two ways to pass through it – has disappeared. Returning his attention to the stately yet somewhat medieval portal before him, Tarrant removes his eye glasses from his vest pocket, slides them onto his nose, and inspects it. It seems silly to knock on the door to his own heart and there is nothing to indicate a Proper Procedure that must be minded, so he merely puts his hand on the latch and, with a nudge from his shoulder, the door swings open.

 

What he sees beyond is...

 

He reaches up and removes his eye glasses. They will not be required here.

 

The room in which he finds himself is multi-faceted. He counts the walls. Twelve. There are twelve walls each rising at least three stories above his head. At the corner of each, a buttress arches toward the center of the sharply angled ceiling and supports a chandelier of brass and glowing crystal. The light is nearly as bright as that which comes from each of the slender Archer’s windows set in pairs nose-high along each stone wall. There are no tapestries. There is no hearth. The warmth in the room seems to come from the illuminated crystals high above.

 

He turns in a circle, taking in the rugs beneath his feet into which familiar scenes had been woven. There is the day he’d made his first hat with no assistance from his uncle whatsoever. And here is the moment he’d first jumped from the Crimson Cliffs and dived into the sea on a dare from his older cousin, Michener. And over there... well, that looks like the time he’d kept his mother company over tea while they had waited for his father to return home from his journey to the Outlands...

 

There are many, many more memories – old ones – in the rugs beneath his stockinged feet. He wanders the room, re-remembering each, marveling at how they are part of the foundation here in this room that his heart had built.

 

The furniture is also full of memories. There is his grandmother’s Tum Tum wood rocking chair, in which his mother had been rocked to sleep as a wee bairn and in which she had in turn rocked him. Beside it is the wardrobe his father’s father had given Tarrant’s parents as a wedding present. And that cabinet... Tarrant had scratched his initials in it with his father’s best tailor’s shears. The bed is the one he’d slept in every day of his life... until he had earned his position in the White Queen’s Court. The quilt upon it had been crafted by his Aunt Mellithia and the afghan had been knitted by his uncle Theider.

 

His family is here, he sees. In each stick of wood, in each worn stretch of brocade, in each metal fastening... they are all here with him. Everyone is here, except the most important person.

 

Tarrant looks up at the sound of something slowly clicking and clacking. There is no clock in the room (by why would there be given his history with Time?) and even if there were, it would have to be a monumental time piece to make that sort of racket. He follows the sound to a door set three walls away from the door he had used to enter his Room. He looks over his shoulder to check and... yes. That door has also disappeared. But of course. One cannot go out the same way in which one had entered. Not according to the Ins and Outs of the Heart.

 

He jogs over to the only door, throws it open, and...

 

… and stares at the iron portcullis slowly being lifted up. This, he decides, is a well-guarded threshold, indeed. Perhaps for a reason! Tarrant considers the solid strength of the doors, the brass hinges, the iron lattice of the portcullis...

 

Yes, in all of these memories, he had nearly forgotten: there is something he must keep locked away, isn’t there? He must keep his Madness from injuring Alice, and that would be so very easy to do here, in this place where their hearts are meant to come together, where there are meant to be no barriers of substance between them.

 

He startles as something white billows softly behind him. He turns, wondering if his thoughts have somehow summoned the Madness and if so he had better get that portcullis back down posthaste! The gears that are lifting it – the gears he cannot see, oddly enough... perhaps they are invisible or within the wall itself – stop moving. The portcullis stops halfway up the doorway, waiting for his next command, waiting to crash down or continue inching upward.

 

Tarrant swallows thickly and takes a step toward the sheet that – strangely – he had not noticed until it had drawn his attention. It is draped over what appears to be a metal dress frame. The size of the linen sheet is such that the object is completely covered, from top to stone floor.

 

He fists his shaking hands. He thinks he knows what is under this pale covering. It is his Darkest Secret. The only secret he would not willingly share with Alice, with anyone. It draws him closer, as if it is the North Star and he is a compass needle, and before he knows it, his hand is gripping the white sheet. With one tug, he could uncover this secret. Face it.

 

The sheet billows again in his grasp, lifts slightly off the stone floor and he glimpses the tattered hem of a familiarly patterned, fruit juice splattered gingham dress, and just beneath it a tangle of soft, white fabric – the froth of petticoats and bloomers – stained with something too dark to be rust...

 

He drops the sheet and stumbles back. Yes, he knows what this secret is. This is the secret of his Madness and what he fears it might drive him to do... to Alice, his wife, his friend... She trusts him when she should not! He has lost himself in his Madness before, in a haze of need so fierce he cannot be sure he would not have forced himself on her had she been present when it had descended over him.

 

But, he reminds himself, he has not come close to forcing himself on Alice. No, he hasn’t. And that fact must remain unchanged. The presence of his Darkest Secret in his Room – in his Heart – will serve as a reminder. The Madness will not overpower him again. He will not risk Alice’s trust, her safety, her happiness.

 

He. Will. Not.

 

And then, with that declaration, the weight of an accusatory stare he had not consciously noticed before that moment... dissolves, lifts, evaporates. He is able to notice the beauty of the room and the pureness of the light around him. The sheet-covered dress form is still there, but he sees it only out of the corner of his eye. He does not turn around and confront it again. He is not yet ready for that. But he is ready to see his wife, to welcome her into his Heart formally and officially. Once she is here, this secret will not seem so overwhelming and dark. Alice is his Light. From the moment she had returned to Underland on Griblig Day, she had begun helping him to build this room, to save only the best memories from his past and put them in their proper place and in their proper perspective. She has filled his heart with so much hope and faith that the ceilings of his room have grown skyward to hold it all.

 

Everything will be fine, he reminds himself. He is Alice’s husband and she wants him and there is no reason for the Madness to gain control of him now. There is no fear, no anger, no pain to feed it. Everything is fine, will be fine!

 

A sharp clang shatters the peaceful silence that thrums with his determination. Tarrant turns toward the open doorway and watches as the metal grating resumes its interrupted motion and is raised higher and higher. Finally, when only the pointed ends of the portcullis shadow the top of the pointed-arch doorway, he takes a moment to look beyond his own threshold and has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from braying with laughter. Just as he’d hoped, Alice’s door – a roughly and recently hewn wooden door with hammered wrought iron metalwork – is but a hop over a shimmering moat, a skip across a cobblestone-laid corridor, and a death-defying jump over what looks like a rocky ravine the depth of a rabbit hole.

 

He sincerely hopes she’ll be addressing that rather intimidating deterrent to visitors soon!

 

Tarrant glances down at the shimmering, deep blue moat that runs along the length of the corridor, lapping against the wall.

 

“A bridge would be useful,” he observes, but none appears at his request. He frowns. “Perhaps next time...” Yes, perhaps on their next visit to their Rooms, there might be a bridge for Alice to cross safely to his door.

 

He turns his attention to the hallway. The corridor itself is straight although Tarrant’s room on the other side of the wall is most assuredly not. This makes perfect sense to him – although two things share one point (or, in this case, a wall) in common, one cannot expect them to conform to each other – but he makes a note ask Alice what her thoughts are on the matter. Alice never fails to entertain him with the utter contrariness of her way of thinking and this seems to be just the sort of thing she would find quite interesting and noteworthy. With that evaluated and properly cataloged for later discussion, he focuses his attention on something far more relevant.

 

Down the right end of the hall, Tarrant sees an ornate wooden, white-painted door. Obviously, this is the way back to the castle and Marmoreal, back to the fourth floor hall in the Round Turret of the West Wing. The door at the other end of the hall, however...

 

Tarrant grins. He has no idea where this ivy-covered iron gate goes, but he has a suspicion as to what must be on the other side. And if this door opens... well. Things will be looking very... progressive indeed!

 

He lets out a breath and turns back to the door to Alice’s Heart. It is still closed. He supposes he could call out to her, but... no. Alice’s curiosity will lead her to it... eventually. And besides, they do have all day.

 

Tarrant does not even consider having a seat in the old rocking chair in his room. He crosses his arms and leans against the door jamb. He does his best to distract himself from the half-formed fear of Alice – deeply in the grip of her Curiosity – barreling out her door and tripping into that horrible ravine that exists in place of a doorstep!

 

He is not sure how long he waits, how long he contemplates the evidence that Alice’s heart is untested: the door is basic (Dare he hope she has never had her heart broken before?) and the ravine is quite literal (Alice does tend to keep people at a distance until she knows them better!) and there is no portcullis over her door. (But she does not have any monsters to cage, does she?)

 

Tarrant worries about that. He has not seen any evidence of the Madness itself, only his fear of it... but it must be lurking somewhere. He would like to think it cannot enter his heart, but he fears it is an indivisible part of him. It is here... somewhere. Perhaps hiding in his own shadow, thus he can never quite catch it. He debates, briefly, warning Alice about it... It might be wise... unless the act of warning her calls it forth...

 

He feels himself frowning fiercely as he debates this. So fiercely that he startles when Alice’s door creaks open.

 

“Alice! Stop!” he calls just as she moves to take a step over the threshold while gaping at him, then turning her gaze upward to the ceiling and paying attention to everything but the one thing she ought to be minding most carefully – just as he’d feared! He hops over the narrow moat and skips across the cobblestones and holds out his arms, ready to grab her, but she obeys the urgent note in his voice. She freezes, one foot just hovering over the threshold of her door, and he deliberately points one finger downward. She follows it with her gaze and gasps. Her foot is quickly pulled back to join its counterpart.

 

“You’ll have to hop over it, I’m afraid,” he informs her.

 

With a nod, she backs up a step, bracing herself in the open doorway to her Heart, and leaps into his arms. Of course he feels better immediately to have her warm and real presence with him again, but – naturally – Alice being Alice, she complains, “I left the door open.”

 

“As did I,” he reassures her. “And as there are only the two of us here and I promise not to do so without your permission, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about who might sneak into your Heart while you’re away.”

 

She snorts softly. “Good point.” And then she frowns. “But I started a fire in the grate...”

 

“Where it shall continue burning pleasantly until you get back around to tending to it,” he explains patiently. “Fires do tend to get rather temperamental if one plays with them too much. Sometimes it’s best to let them cool off for a bit.”

 

“Oh, all... right,” she replies and with no other immediate concerns on her mind, looks into his eyes.

 

They are standing very close, he suddenly realizes. She is still pressed against his chest and his arms are still locked around her and she makes no move to put the necessary distance between them. He sighs, reluctantly ceding to the demands of Responsibility. They are still courting, after all. He should not permit himself to press against her thus.

 

Tarrant loosens his arms and leans back. Alice doesn’t let go of him completely, however, as she looks back over her shoulder at the crevasse running along her side of the corridor. “Why is that there?”

 

“The same reason there’s a moat over here,” he informs her. “So that no one can force their way into your Heart without your invitation. Obviously, you would have to open your heart to them so that they could enter safely and, in that case, it would hardly be forcing, would it?”

 

Alice gives him a wan smile and then looks over his shoulder. Her eyes widen and her body tenses. Tarrant tightens his arms around her, wonders if she can see... can sense...

 

He prepares himself, ready to toss her across the ravine and through the open door to her own Heart in the event that what had snagged her attention is the very thing that he fears: the Madness.

 

“Why is there a portcullis over your door?”

 

He lets out the breath he’d been holding. “The portcullis... yes. Perhaps a necessary precaution given my predilection to... er, being Mad.”

 

“But why do you keep it – the Madness, er, yourself – locked up so tightly! You’ve never hurt anyone!”

 

“And I wish to ensure that that fact remains unchanged.”

 

Alice looks at him with sad eyes, but drops the subject.

 

For a long moment, they simply stare at each other. Tarrant feels his arms tighten around her waist and her hands shift against his shoulders, one migrating into his frizzy hair and the other curling around the back of his neck. “Thank you,” he says before his lips can think of something far more adventuresome and naughty to do, “for your Leap of Faith, Alice.”

 

“I told you I trusted you,” she reminds him.

 

“You did,” he acknowledges. Clearing his throat, Tarrant unwinds his arms from around her and gently pulls her hands away. “Would you like to come in for a visit? You may decline, of course...”

 

“Don’t be silly. Of course I’d like to see your Room.”


	22. Tarrant's Room, Part 2

Holding one of her hands, he nimbly hops over the shimmering moat and then guides her own jump over the threshold. Surprisingly enough, he arrives in the breezeway again, where his hat and coat still await his collection of them and his boots still hold their place under the bench. As Alice has neither coat nor hat to be taken, he gestures for her to have a seat on the bench, which she does and absently fumbles with her very uncomfortable-looking shoes.

  
“My Room doesn ’t have a feature like this... that I noticed,” she observes.

  
“I would suggest adding one,” he replies. “You must take care with Hearts. Especially your own. It won’t enjoy being tread on, especially by boots such as those. Would you like some assistance?” he asks, noting the tangle of laces she cannot see over the voluminous skirt of her dress.

  
“Bloody... yes, please. I’m never wearing these wretched things again.”

  
He giggles. “You mustn’t blame the boots for how they were made. Perhaps if you had a word with them about being more accommodating, you might suit each other better.”

  
“Perhaps,” she agrees, smiling as he quickly unties the knotted bows and slides the heeled boots from first one foot and then the other. He does not proceed as quickly as he should; he rather enjoys the feeling of her ankle resting in the palm of his hand and against his fingers. For a moment, he imagines sliding his hand up her calf to the soft juncture behind her knee...

  
But no. No! They are still courting and if he touches her like that now, he does not think he will be able to stop. He does not think he would be forcing himself on her, though, and a quick glance at her face confirms this. She is watching him as he tends to her, as he lingers kneeling opposite her knees... and there is no protest anywhere in her expression or manner.

  
A soft, cool breeze wafts through the breezeway and she shivers. Tarrant stands, at  once relieved and mournful that the moment had passed. “Come inside,” he invites, holding out his hand.

  
She takes it and he turns toward the door to his Room – the one he had entered from the breezeway before – and opens it for her.

  
“It’s so warm!” she exclaims. “And bright! How...? Oh...!”

  
Tarrant follows her gaze up to the crystal chandelier.

  
“Why does this all seem so familiar?” she marvels, meandering through the twelve-sided room, musing over the scenes on the floor coverings and the well-used and equally well-loved furniture. She does not seem to notice the sheet-covered dress form – her gaze slides past it without even the tiniest pause – for which he is  _ very _ thankful. 

  
Turning, she smiles at him, shaking her head in awe. “I feel as if I’ve been here before, but that must be wrong. We both know I’ve never seen this place. I haven’t even seen your room in the castle!”

  
He watches as she trails her fingers over a chaise that he had been particularly fond of and which had once resided in his grandparent s’ house when he had been a lad on the brink of adulthood. He remembers all the daydreams that had found him there, each quite lovely and fine, although not nearly so lovely nor as fine as the woman who touches it now.

  
“Perhaps this all seems so very... homey to you,” he muses, watching her move on to caress the back of a threadbare wingback chair that his father had often dozed off in while waiting for the kettle to boil, “because you have been a resident here for... sometime now.”

  
“A resident?” she asks. “But that’s impossible.”

  
“Not if I had welcomed you into my heart previous to to-day ’s excursion ,” he argues quietly.

  
For some reason, this suggestion makes her blush. “I’m sorry...”  _ And  _ apologize.

  
He feels his brows arc at that. “Why-ever would you say that, Alice?” He asks, but he thinks of the dimly lit room she had left and the fire she had mentioned starting in the hearth and he believes he can guess what has upset her.

  
“Well, my Room...” she begins awkwardly. “I  _ would _ invite you over for a visit but it’s not really fit for visitors at the moment, so...”

  
“Alice,” he interjects. “I do not doubt that you will extend an invitation when you are ready. I am happy to wait until that time.”

  
She releases a long breath and smiles. “Thank you.”

  
“It is—”

  
“— _ my pleasure? _ ” she chimes in with him and he giggles.

  
“Yes. Exactly,” he assures her. “Actually,  _ I  _ should be apologizing as I  _ did  _ extend an invitation to you and yet I don’t believe I have any refreshments to offer!”

  
She smiles wryly. “Neither do I... in my Room, I mean. Perhaps we ought to bring a picnic basket next time.”

  
He considers that even as he tries not to think about the  _ last  _ picnic they had enjoyed together. No, now is not a good time for him to think about how she had crawled onto his lap, had licked his lips, had sucked the juices from his tongue...

  
He shudders, shakes his head and rasps, “We shall see.”

  
She remembers, too. He can see her eyelids droop just the smallest bit. The tip of her tongue pokes out between her lips and runs along the seam of her mouth. Her teeth scrape over her lower lip and Tarrant has to turn away lest his mind wander along with that tongue and those teeth and he find himself shoving her out of his Room and releasing the portcullis to lock himself away from her.

  
“Have you found the way out?” she asks softly.

  
He nods, grateful for the diversion. “Yes, yes. Down the hall, to the left, we’ll find the door back to the Queen’s castle.”

  
“And to the right?”

  
“I am... not entirely sure,” he admits, glancing over his shoulder at her and then extending his hand. “Would you like to investigate it to-day or return to-morrow?” Either way, he’d rather they left his Room for now. He is not quite ready to explain the origins of these woven memories or the history of each bit of furniture... not when his reunion with them is still so fresh.

  
Alice laughs. “Whatever gave you the idea that I could possibly turn my back on a magical door and leave it unopened?”

  
“I beg your pardon,” he replies as she takes his hand. “That was a monumentally foolish question, wasn’t it?”

  
“Not foolish,” she argues. “Perhaps one day I’ll surprise you by answering contrarily.”

  
“A contrary Alice. A riddle for the finest of minds to puzzle over.”

  
“You’ll solve it first,” she assures him and he feels his heart warm and his chest swell with pride at the evidence of her respect for him and her generous estimation of his acumen. “Now, what’s this right-side doorway, then?”

  
Giggling at the sheer tenacity of Alice’s Curiosity, he relents, and when he opens the door for her, they find the breezeway again where they put on their shoes (again, he assists Alice with hers) and she straightens his jacket lapels after he shrugs the garment on and then she places his hat on his head, ducking under it for a quick peck on his cheek.

  
“Some day,” she says in a tone that is Thought itself, “I shall have to tell you that I think... some part of me – my subconscious maybe – wanted to kiss you the first time I assisted you with your hat.”

  
Tarrant leans forward, draws his fingers over her cheek and whispers, “And on that day, Alice, I shall tell you how very much I think I must have wanted you to.”

  
She smiles and he grins and then he reaches out and opens the door. The portcullis is still suspended above their heads and the cobblestone corridor remains but now there is a modest and unpainted wooden bridge. And not even one of the drawbridge variety. It seems, Tarrant notes with raised brows, he has no intention of closing his heart to Alice now that she has found her way into it.

  
“This wasn’t here a few moments ago,” she points out.

  
“I noticed that as well,” he concedes. “Perhaps I’ve had a Change of Heart.”

  
“A good one,” she amends.

  
“Yes. I believe it is.” He is tempted to kiss her, here, in the middle of the bridge spanning the shimmering moat, but no. No, they have things to tend to... “Onward, then! To the right.”

  
And to the right they go. Alice often gazes up at the ceiling – which resembles and arbor... and also a cloudy day... and sometimes a starry night, depending on the direction in which one tilts one’s chin and squints – and she marvels (just as Tarrant had predicted!) at the walls of the corridor:

  
“How can your Room have windows that let in so much sunlight if this corridor is blocking and throwing shadows on so many of them?”

  
“Why would you think this wall would behave in such a manner?”

  
“Well, it’s here, isn’t it?”

  
“And what makes you think my Room shares the same space as this corridor? Is this Above logic?”

  
“... I suppose it is.”

  
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Alice, I can see why you prefer things in Underland. Much more sensible.”

  
She snorts softly but doesn’t disagree. The ivy-covered iron gate at the end of the hall becomes larger and larger as they approach it until it is a right proper normal size and Tarrant reaches out with his free hand (the one that is not still grasping Alice’s) and pushes it open. What it reveals is breath-taking... and far more than Tarrant had ever expected.

  
It seems that marrying a Champion with the blessing of the Queen, herself, has its advantages.

  
“What’s all this?” Alice wheezes.

  
He begins inventorying from the greenest out: “Grass, trees, soil, sky...”

  
“Yes, thank you. I can see  _ that _ ,” she interjects, gazing out over the wildflower-crowded meadow, a shimmering pond in the distance and very greenly canopied forest beyond. “But what’s it doing here? And where is the castle?” Tarrant watches as Alice steps outside, still clutching his hand like a climber’s rope, and turns, looking back at whatever must be on either side of the gate. “There’s just an old stone wall on either side,” she reports. “Where has the castle gone?”

  
“The castle is where the castle was and has always been, Alice. It is  _ we _ who have moved.”

  
“And where have we moved to?”

  
“Here.” Obviously.

  
“Wherever  _ Here _ is,” she mutters.

  
“Here,” Tarrant replies, “is Our Place.”

  
Alice turns back toward him from surveying the meadow. “Ours?”

  
“Yes. Yours and mine.”

  
“But... How can that be? I haven’t asked the Queen for any land or bought any...”

  
Tarrant stares at her for a long moment and then realizes... things are very different Above. Very different. Perhaps monarchs do not give land (in addition to the land that one inherits upon one’s birth, that is) to those in their service who have served... well. And Alice  _ had  _ served the White Queen very well, indeed. In fact, now that he thinks about it, perhaps some of this is for  _ him _ , for  _ his  _ service to the Resistance and for completing his task of sending Alice on to Marmoreal safe and sound and carrying the Vorpal Sword!

  
“Tarrant?”

  
He shakes his head. Yes, yes! Alice is still waiting for his response. “There’s a Place for everyone in Underland,” he says simply.

  
“And this is Ours?”

  
He nods. “We’re courting so Your Place and My Place have come together to make Our Place.”

  
“That’s awfully... thoughtful of them.”

  
“Home is where the Heart is,” he concludes. He simply hadn’t expected Alice’s Place to suit itself so perfectly to his. Or perhaps his had suited itself to hers. It hardly matters now. Their Places are Together, and Tarrant doesn’t know if he’s ever seen such a pretty stretch of land before in all of Underland. 

  
“So... we’ll live here, then. Someday?”

  
“If you like.” He tries to say this as neutrally as possible. Some other day – not to-day – he will show Alice His Place, or rather what His Place had been before the war. Some day he will confide in her the plans he had once made for it. Made... and abandoned. But not to-day.

  
“So...” Alice begins again. “What are we to do with all this in the meantime?”

  
“Ah, an excellent question, Alice. One I believe I have the answer to.”

  
“Yes?”

  
“Well, if you would like to move forward with the Courting... there is one other instruction aside from Speaking From The Bottom Of One’s Heart and Uncover One’s Secrets: we must also Reap what we have Sown. Before we can reap we must sow... You know what that means, don’t you?”

  
“Um... Would planting a garden make too much sense?”

  
He bends and presses a very quick kiss to the point of her chin in his delight. “No,” he confirms. “Planting a garden makes just the right amount of sense. And that’s just what we’re going to do!”

  
“Start making sense? I should like to see that,” she teases.

  
Tarrant snorts. “Silly Alice. We always make sense. And now, we’ll also make a garden!”


	23. Question...

It had been a very full day: waking, meeting with the Queen, lunch, unlocking the Door to her Heart, venturing into it, finding Tarrant’s Room, and then adventuring out into what they will turn into a garden. Alice had been a bit concerned for the flowers populating the meadow but then she had realized that none of them seemed capable of speech. When she had pointed this out, Tarrant’s bright red-orange brows had risen quite dramatically.

  
“But of course they can’t speak, Alice. How would we find a moment of privacy in Our Place otherwise?” He had paused then before considering aloud, “I suppose we could invite some Primroses and Bachelor’s Buttons to migrate... but they do tend to get into all sorts of arguments. Over Black-eyed Susans, usually. And then the Johnny Jump Ups will show up – invited or not – and, at that point, we’ll likely wish we’d just asked a Trumpet Vine to take up residence. Noisy things, Trumpet Vines, although perhaps preferable to the racket the other lot would cause.”

  
“So... these flowers are not... sentient?”

  
“Not in the slightest,” he’d assured her. “Although, should you like to relocate them...”

  
She had and Tarrant had promised to make arrangements. He had spent a good deal of time on his hands and knees in the meadow looking for toves. “No better earth movers in all of Underland,” he’d lectured brightly. “We should have thought to bring some cheese.” Although, even without it, Tarrant had managed to coax a large family of the ground-dwelling rodents out of their forest-edge burrows to help them clear a bit of land  _ and  _ relocate the plants currently occupying the plot of their future garden. She remembers hearing something about the installation of a sundial but she still isn’t sure what that had had to do with anything...

  
They had returned to the fourth floor of the West Wing’s Round Turret after that and retired to their rooms. Tarrant had suggested a game of checkers but Alice had been too easily distracted to present a respectable offense.

  
“I’m sorry,” she says as he puts the game away and then considers a puzzle box on the shelf above it. “I... Should we get ready to go down for dinner?” Dressing herself for the evening meal, yes,  _ that _ Alice thinks she can manage.

  
Tarrant doesn’t turn around. He peruses the assortment of entertainment items that had come with the room itself and muses, “If you would like to go join the others for dinner, I would be happy to join you. They might be... a bit surprised to see us, though.”

  
“How so...? Oh. Yes.” Yes, indeed. She and Tarrant are supposedly on their honeymoon. A No-Interruptions-Please sort of honeymoon.

  
“I expect a tray will be sent up for us shortly. Just like our lunch,” he continues, ignoring the rather noticeable fact that they are  _ not _ enjoying the sort of honeymoon everyone  _ assumes  _ they are.

_   
Thirteen more days _ , Alice tells herself. The quantification, however, does not make her feel better: thirteen days seems like a Very Long Time. She tilts her head to the side as she considers Tarrant’s shoulders and back. He really needn’t continue to wear his jacket while they are in their rooms. Although perhaps he feels more comfortable surrounded by so many layers. Still, Alice wishes he felt as comfortable in naught but his shirtsleeves and trousers. The presence of so many barriers between them seems horridly forced. They are friends, first and foremost. And she has promised him a full courtship. She will not try to change his mind or trick him into indulging her Urges. But, still... they are married! And that jacket, waistcoat, and ascot mock her.

  
“Tarrant?” she muses aloud as he bends to inspect something that looks like a backgammon board.

  
“Yes?”

  
“Are there no questions that have occurred to you that you still hesitate to ask me?”

  
“Questions? Well... yes. I suppose I do have a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  
“Hm...” Perhaps this might work, after all, she muses. “What if I told you I would answer – and answer truthfully – any question you ask me... so long as you ask it in your shirtsleeves?”

  
“I...  _ What? _ ”

  
“You seem very... formal,” she explains quickly. “And we  _ are  _ married and... honestly, a jacket, waistcoat, and ascot aren’t required wear when a married couple are alone in their rooms together, are they?” The last bit comes out sounding a bit desperate but she forces herself to simply stop talking and wait for his response. He seems to be considering her proposal, actually. She watches as he tilts his head to the side and then his shoulders relax just the smallest bit and then...

  
“ _ Any _ question I ask?” he checks, still facing away from her although she doubts he is studying the contents of the shelves.

  
She shivers slightly at the dark undercurrent in his tone. “Yes. Provided you remove your coat, vest, and bow tie.”

  
“Are you  _ sure? _ ”

  
“Try me.”

  
“Very well. Very well.” Tarrant takes a deep breath and intones, “Did you ever... do more than  _ consider _ my suggestion?”

  
“Which suggestion is that?”

  
“That you rely on... yourself to appease your... needs.”

  
Alice inhales sharply. That is  _ quite _ a muchy question! She’s inclined to answer it straight out simply in appreciation for the nerve it must have taken for him to ask. But, no. Not unless... “Your jacket, waistcoat, and ascot  _ first _ , Tarrant.”

  
He turns then. He looks over his shoulder before putting his back to the shelves and, in a quick motion, shucks the jacket from his arms and shoulders. Alice does not look away from his very green eyes as he steps forward and lays it across the back of his chair. She watches as he efficiently unbuttons his vest and places it upon the coat. Finally, his stained hands move to the bow tie at his neck and pick apart the knot.

  
Alice’s fingers twitch and dig into the upholstered arms of the chair at the sight. Perhaps next time she makes a proposal like this one, she’ll include a clause that permits  _ her _ to assist him with undressing. Her gaze drops to his shirt cuffs – still tightly buttoned around his wrists – and adds a request for him to roll up his shirtsleeves to the amended bargain.

  
Ascot removed and laid atop the other two discarded articles of clothing, he stands behind the chair he had occupied throughout their brief checkers match and clears his throat. “Now... your answer, Alice?”

  
“Yes,” she says. That and no more.

  
His brows twitch. “Yes... you will answer or...”

  
“Yes, I did... investigate your suggestion.”

  
Alice knows she is not imagining it when he wobbles slightly and grips the left and right wings of the wing back armchair tighter. “You...?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“And... was it...?” He swallows visibly.

  
“Was it what?” Alice asks, unsure of both what he wishes to know and why he wishes to know it.

  
“Was it... pleasant?”

  
Frowning, Alice looks away. “Before I answer that, will you tell me why you wish to know? Because this seems like an odd question for you to ask me... unless you’ve changed your mind about courting me.” Her gaze flickers back toward him. “But I don’t think you have.”

  
“I haven’t. I...” His gaze drops to the chair’s polished wood frame in his grasp. “I am not asking as your Intended, but as a husband who is... untried in these sorts of matters and wishes to know if his wife... has learned of her own preferences. Not that I think it would be appropriate for you to describe them!” He is quick to explain. “But to reassure him –  _ me – _ to reassure me that you... are aware of... what I mean is, it would be easier if I knew that  _ you knew _ what you preferred. Your preferences. In Those Matters.”

  
Alice studies him for a moment. “Tarrant... you are... When you say  _ untried _ you mean...?”

  
“I was a very ambitious hatter in my youth,” he whispers. “And then, shortly after receiving my Royal Appointment at Marmoreal, the Bluddy Behg Hid... The Jabberwock... an’ mae clan...” He pauses, clears his throat again. “It was a war, Alice. And my family was gone. I had no interest in...”

  
“No, of course you didn’t. Wouldn’t. I understand,” she murmurs, doing her best to hide her shock. Although she is no expert, she would have thought – from the proficiency of his kisses alone! – that he had... that he has... “Thank you. For telling me.”

  
Oh, this  _ does _ put things in a new light! Alice considers his hesitance when it comes to touching her... intimately. Perhaps his desire to finish their Courtship is only  _ part  _ of the reason? Perhaps, unlike her, he is not keen to venture into the unknown rashly?

  
“Alice?”

  
“Hm?”

  
“Your reply...?”

  



	24. ...and Answer

“Oh!” She blinks, coming back to herself and back to him. Understanding now why he had asked, she feels angry with herself all over again. Although now she is not only irritated at having failed herself, but she regrets very much that her rather unspectacular efforts have also failed  _ him. _

  
“I... I’m so sorry, Tarrant. I tried, but I... I couldn’t... I didn’t enjoy it, not without y—” Alice clamps her lips closed at his sharp inhalation. She does not look at him; some instinct informs her that if she does, the look on his face will make her toss aside all her good intentions, rise from her chair, clamor into his, lean over the back of it and—

  
She forces a cleansing breath into her lungs and then out again. “I wish I could tell you my preferences.” And she  _ truly _ does. She would do anything to ease the stress of the coming intimacies from his mind. “But I think I... need you. To help me discover them. Together.” She does not look at him as she says this. Not because she is ashamed or embarrassed – although she  _ is _ blushing hotly; still  _ that _ has never stopped her from speaking her mind before, not to him – but because she is afraid that, in denying him what privacy she can give him (privacy she gives him by averting her gaze), he will be drawn to her and he will break his own promise. She has a promise of her own to keep: she had promised not to assist him in breaking his. And she is  _ trying _ ...

  
“Alice, I... I...” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his fingers tighten impossibly further on the back of the chair. “I need a moment. Please excuse me.”

  
She nods and doesn’t look up until the door to the unmentionable room closes. She listens to the sound of water running and stares at his abandoned clothing still draped over the chair. Alice stands and crosses the rug, navigates around the small table, and, kneeling a single knee on the cushion of the chair, she collects his ascot in her hand, brings the fabric to her nose and inhales.

_   
Yes... _ The scent of him makes her pulse flutter like a sky that has been darkened with thousands of wind-skipping butterflies. Yes, she wants him. Yes, he  _ makes _ her Want...

  
Only now she realizes that the unknown she seeks is as equally unknown to him. It had never occurred to her that he would be unaware... No, no:  _ untried _ ... She had assumed he would be able to show her, teach her, instruct her in the ways of intimacy between a man and a woman.

  
Instead, it appears, they will have to instruct each other.

  
Alice is glad Tarrant had deigned to take a moment, for she needs one as well.

  
She closes her eyes and breathes in his scent once more, and then she relocates herself to the balcony. It’s not until the water has stopped running in the bathing room and Tarrant has found her outside and she has noticed the wet spots on his shirt and the damp strands of his hair – the water he had liberally splashed on his face had darkened them to nearly blood red against his pale temples and cheeks and neck – that she realizes she’s still holding his ascot. His green eyes focus on it where it is crushed in her tight grasp. He takes a shuddering breath.

  
“I know almost naught of the... relations between a man and a woman,” she admits. “And certainly no... specifics regarding a woman’s... enjoyment of it. But I will. I won’t fail you this time, I—”

  
“Alice, stop. The failure is not yours.” He pauses, considers his hands where they rest on the balcony railing and admits, “Although I am aware of the... practice, I am unclear as to... specifics.” He glances at her, his brows scrunched apologetically despite their damp disarray. “I have been remiss in my duties on the matter,” he lisps softly. “You are correct, Alice. I shall also...”

  
The moment of silence stretches until she wonders if the next labored beat of her heart will shatter it. She reaches for his hand and grasps it tightly in hers despite his start of surprise. “Everything will be all right,” she promises him.

  
He takes a deep breath and nods. “Thank you, Alice.”

  
And then a soft knock on the door interjects. Alice smiles and shifts her grip from his hand to his arm. “I’ll get the door. Shall we eat out here tonight?”

  
Tarrant nods, his expression relaxing. As Alice crosses the room, answers the door, and asks the very nervous-looking fish butler to take the silver tray out to the balcony, she makes a concentrated effort to set aside their conversation and the very  _ intimate _ nature of it. She focuses on what is important here: Tarrant does not want to disappoint her; she does not want to disappoint him.

  
Dinner is pleasant and the view of the sunset makes it very romantic. Tarrant tells her the rules for a Witzend card game he’d played as a child and before dessert is finished, he has fetched a deck and they are slapping away at cards on the tabletop, making a wonderful mess. They shed their awkwardness and tension with each bout of laughter until Alice yawns, which in turn elicits a yawn from Tarrant, and then they giggle at each other.

  
“Time for bed!” Tarrant announces, then pauses as the  _ usual _ implications of that phrase occur to him.

  
“And time for sofa!” Alice contributes before he can work himself up over the phrase.

  
“The sofa?”

  
“Yes. Last night I had the bed, so tonight I will sleep on the sofa.”

  
“Alice, I don’t recommend...”

  
“Perhaps we should ask the sofa’s opinion?”

  
“I don’t doubt it would prefer you as an inhabitant for the night, but, Alice, a sofa is not skilled in providing a good night’s sleep. An afternoon doze, perhaps, but not—”

  
“I’ll be fine. If you like, you can change for bed.”

  
“Change?”

  
“Into your nightshirt.”

  
“Oh, yes. Well, actually the shirt I’m currently wearing is very versatile.”

  
“I see. Well, at the very least you’ll permit your suspenders to unwind?”

  
“I suppose I shall.”

  
Alice gives him a moment alone inside the suite. She collects the scattered cards and replaces all of the dishes on the tray for collection in the morning. When she enters the room, she sees Tarrant – sans suspenders – hovering uncertainly between the bed and the sofa.

  
“I thought we already agreed you could have the bed if the sofa was agreeable to accommodating me?”

  
“Ah! We did!” he very nearly exclaims. “I was simply wondering if I ought to confirm with the sofa...”

  
Alice strides over to it and takes a seat. She lays her hands, palms down, on the cushions and rubs the taut fabric along its weave and feels the cushions at her back fluff invitingly. “I don’t sense any objections.”

  
Tarrant fidgets. “It is not very gentlemanly of me to permit you to—”

  
“ _ Permit  _ me?”

  
“Er, that is...” He huffs out a frustrated breath. “I’m only... my intentions...”

  
“Are very noble and I appreciate your efforts, truly,” she finishes for him, standing. “But I would appreciate it more so if you would loan me a pillow and a blanket.”

  
He does more than that. He bustles between the bed and the sofa, making up a very comfortable pocket for her to tuck herself into. He remembers her preference for a single pillow and an extra quilt and when he is done, Alice thanks him with a hand on his shoulder and kiss on his cheek.

  
“And now, I believe it’s my turn to tuck  _ you  _ in.”

  
“Alice... it’s not necessary—”

  
Smirking, she turns back to his bed and holds up the bed covers. She tests the temperature of the sheets with the palm of her hand and, shaking the blankets clutched in her fist significantly, nods for him to make himself comfortable. With a self-conscious tilt to his brows, he does.

  
“Alice...” he begins hesitantly as she tucks the sheets and blankets around him, “as I’m still wearing my shirtsleeves, might I ask one more question?”

  
“Of course.”

  
“ _ Do  _ you mind sleeping on the sofa?”

  
She sighs out a laugh. “At the moment, no, I honestly don’t. Ask me again in the morning.”

  
“The morning, yes,” he agrees, frowning up at the canopy hanging over the bed.

  
“Are you comfortable?” she checks.

  
He sighs. “Very.”

  
“But...?”

  
“But I fear sleep will be a long time in coming.”

  
He seems resigned and Alice hurries to offer a possible solution. She gently brushes her fingertips through his frizzy hair, enjoying the fact that it is not a tangled mass at all but very soft and springy. “Hm. Well, I suppose we could count sheep.”

  
He tilts his head, leaning into her touch even as he argues, “That would require recruiting sheep to come up to our room so that we might count them, which would be quite inconsiderate and – should sleep evade us for a considerable length of time – cruel to the sheep.”

  
Well, when viewed from that perspective... “It would be very unfair to deprive them of their own sleep, wouldn’t it? Perhaps we shall count our blessings instead?”

  
“Yes. Perhaps.”

  
“In that case, may you discover a great many.” Alice leans forward and presses a brief kiss to his lips. “Sleep well and sweet dreams, Tarrant.”

  
“To you as well,” he replies with a luminous smile that both fills Alice with joy at the sight of it and makes her ache to taste him. “Good night, Alice.”

  
Alice tucks away her sudden inclination to reintroduce her tongue to his and, with one more smile and a soft “Good night” she heads for the changing screen and pulls on her nightgown and robe. As she ties the sash and douses the light, she imagines a night – some night more than thirteen days in the future – when she will not require a robe, a sofa, or – perhaps – even a nightgown. She imagines being welcomed into bed by her husband’s long, strong, bare arms against her skin, his kiss against her temple, and a sigh that is both her name and a bedtime prayer all in one.

  
Perhaps one night... their good-nights will be thus.

  
But not tonight.  



	25. The Garden

When Alice had suggested that planting a garden might be an appropriate use of the land they had found at the end of the corridor between their Rooms, she had not really given the undertaking all the thought it had required. 

  
Her first indication that gardening is something to Consider Carefully had come the very next morning when Alice had awakened early enough to catch Tarrant still in his shirtsleeves. Chessur had already been making a nuisance of himself over the tea tray but Tarrant had been Energy itself.

  
“What shall we do to-day, Alice?”

  
“Oh, er...” She’d eyed the empty teacups and steaming pot on the other side of the room and struggled to form a coherent suggestion. “The garden?”

  
“Yes, yes! An  _ excellent _ suggestion, Alice! You won’t mind going through our Rooms again to get there, will you? I’m afraid that’s the only way in.”

  
“Can I have tea first?”

  
“Of course!” He’d bustled over to the table and pulled out Alice’s chair for her. Across the breakfast things, Chessur had merely grinned. At least until she’d had a few sips of tea.

  
Tarrant had rushed hither and thither gathering who knows what and arranging two small wicker baskets. By the time he had finished the preparations, Alice had felt brave enough to untangle her hair – if only to get the blasted Cat to stop snickering at her.

  
“We’ll stop by the kitchens for some cheese... for the toves,” he ’d explained absently. “Toves  _ adore _ cheese. And perhaps some things for lunch for ourselves and... Oh! Yes, I must stop by the workshop for some necessities. Gardening simply isn’t done without the proper bits and bobbins, you know. And then we’ll be on our way!”

  
At this point, Alice, who had reluctantly decided against a third cup of tea, had startled as Tarrant had thrown a set of clothing over the changing screen for her. She’d been about to put on her tunic and breeches.

  
“What are these for?” she’d asked. “And whenever did you make them?”

  
“Oh, well, sewing is very soothing for those who can’t sleep. And well, although we hadn’t specifically planned to go a-gardening to-day, I had thought we might get around to it soon, so I thought, perhaps, these articles might be... welcome.”

  
Alice had put them on and smiled at the comfortable fit. “ _ Very _ welcome. Thank you. And,” she’d added with a burst of inspiration, “if we meet any courtiers in the corridors to-day I think I will enjoy their expressions  _ immensely. _ ”

  
Alice had stepped into her most comfortable pair of not-white slippers and moved out from behind the screen. Tarrant – with one suspender slung over his shoulder and the other still in hand – had paused suddenly and, evaluating her with a critical eye and frowning thoughtfully across the suite at her, inquired, “Where are your muck-about boots, Alice?”

  
Muck-about boots. Oh, dear frumious Bandersnatches but that had not sounded... appealing. Not at all. “Er...  _ what _ sort of boots?” She’d asked although she’d doubted she’d wanted the actual information (which would quite probably confirm her fears on their unpleasantness).

  
“Have you  _ ever _ started a garden?” he’d asked, brows arched so high they had nearly disappeared under his hat. (And why he had insisted on completing his morning routine by putting his hat on before his waistcoat, ascot, socks, pocket watch, jacket, and shoes – in that order – Alice still hasn’t managed to puzzle out.)

  
“Er... no, I haven’t,” she had admitted.

  
“Worked in a garden?” he’d probed hopefully.

  
She’d shaken her head.

  
“ _ Walked  _ through a garden?”

  
“Of course I’ve walked through a garden!”

  
“Alice, I have no notion of the up-side down and inside-out ways of Above so you’ll just have to forgive me if my attempts to confirm my understanding result in a rather unfortunate Misunderstanding.”

  
“I’ll  _ have to _ forgive you?”

  
“Well, I suppose not. But I would very much like it if you would consider doing so. If only from time to time.”

  
“Oh, all right. I suppose I shall. Now, tell me about gardening.”

  
And so he had. Momentarily forgetting about her somewhat-lit and slightly more-habitable Room (the brief thought of the widow’s weeds is quickly shuffled aside before it can draw her attention away from the curious enterprise she and Tarrant are about to undertake), Alice glances down at the basket hooked over the crook of her arm and raises her brows. Despite having never worked in a garden or started one in her lifetime, Alice doubts people Above use chair cushion embroidery patterns to sow the seeds and plant cuttings!

  
Tarrant opens the ivy-covered gate for her at the end of the cobblestone lane (or would it be a corridor? But corridors don’t normally come cobblestoned!) and Alice lifts a hand to shade her eyes from the bright, afternoon sun.

  
“Ah!” he exclaims, striding past her, apparently not minding the brightness of the light at all. “Look here, Alice. The toves have been through already. Yes, yes, very nicely tilled. Those corkscrews  _ do _ come in handy.”

  
Alice blinks a bit and then, resolutely lowering her hand, takes in the two plots of upturned earth. She meanders after Tarrant, down the aisle of grass between the will-be gardens and the scent of fresh, mineral-nourished earth wafts up to her. Alice kneels and drags her fingers gently through the shifting soil. It collects easily under her fingernails and she considers thanking Tarrant for insisting on helping her outfit herself for this task to-day. Her canvas trousers, muck-about boots, and long sleeved linen shirt seem to suit the situation quite nicely. And the expression on Sir Oliver and Lady Callia’s faces as they’d passed them outside the castle kitchens  _ had  _ been very entertaining, indeed!

  
“Ah-ah-ah!” Tarrant hums warningly. “Don’t begin without your hat, Alice!” And an instant later, a wide-brimmed straw hat flutters down onto the top of her head.

  
“Thank you.”

  
“No thanks, please. It’s not a very flattering sort of hat, as it’s a work hat – a hat for work, that is – and it hasn’t actually done much work yet, but it will! Beating back the sun’s rays is rather tiresome. After that, I’m sure a word or two in thanks would be highly appreciated.”

  
“All right,” she concedes, charmed that his natural inclination is to assume she would be thanking the  _ hat _ for a job well done and not the  _ man _ who had made it for her.

  
“Now, as I mentioned, we must first decide the layout of the garden,” he says, clearly energized and excited about beginning the task at hand. Tarrant gestures to his own basket. “Where shall we put the four o’clocks?”

  
“Um... near the sundial, do you think?” She recalls the mention of a sundial from yesterday.

  
“Oh, yes! A very logical suggestion, thank you. Although not so close as to interfere with the toves’ comings and goings. They prefer to nest under the wabe, er, the base of sundials, I mean.”

  
They spend a few moments sketching out where the sundial and garden bench will go – or, actually, Tarrant gestures emphatically and lectures as Alice makes agreeable noises (which she is happy to do as she has no expertise in this matter) – and then Tarrant removes a large, bare, wooden spool from his basket and sets it on the ground.

  
“What’s that for?” she asks, nudging the sewing implement with the toe of her borrowed muck-about boot.

  
“The thread, of course!”

  
“The... thread.”

  
“Yes, yes. See here?” he asks, plucking a large needle from the cloth draped over his basket and, amazingly, there is a green thread dangling from the eye that trails down to the still-bare spool. “We’ve already started a Thread of Conversation.” He nods toward Alice’s basket and, glancing down, she sees a ghostly thread trailing from the needle piercing the handkerchief over the contents of her own basket.

  
“Oh, yes, I see...” As she speaks, the color fills in along the length of the strand until it is a pale green. “So, the more we talk the...”

  
“The stronger the thread, yes,” he replies.

  
“Amazing.”

  
“Is it?”

  
She nods. “This is... not the way gardening is done Above,” she observes.

  
“But how can you be sure? You admitted to not having participated in gardening before.”

  
“Participate, no, I don’t think I have, but I’ve seen it done and there were no threads, conversations, or needles involved.”

  
“How odd. How can one Sew without a needle and thread?” Tarrant’s brows twitch into a frown briefly before he shakes his head and, setting his basket aside, gestures for Alice to join him at the border of the east-side garden. They sink down to their knees in the grass at the edge of the tilled earth. Tarrant reaches into Alice’s basket and pulls out a seat cushion embroidery pattern for a White Champion Flower.

  
“Now, first thing, Alice, is the pattern. At least until you grow proficient enough to remember the placement of the crucial stitches. You apply it thus,” he says, placing the pattern on the earth, “... and insert the needle in the perforated lines...”

  
Alice watches as he does just that, thrusting his needle into a seemingly random hole of the pattern. Just as the eye of the needle disappears beneath the paper, the point emerges from the next hole. He plucks it up and inserts it in the next hole of the paper pattern.

  
“Just like so,” he demonstrates, literally  _ sewing _ his way through the pattern. “Of course, it’s imperative that we mind the thread and not allow the conversation to suffer from too much silence. The stronger the thread, the stronger the plant.”

  
Alice sighs, watching him speed up until the pattern seems to only take a few blinks of an eye to complete. “Bugger,” she mutters. “I’ve never been very skilled at embroidery.”

  
“Then... might I suggest starting with buttercups?” Tarrant suggests. “They are an excellent flower to learn on. Very simple and forgiving of the occasional slip.”

  
Tarrant helps her arrange her supplies and asks her several questions, nodding in encouragement for her to continue speaking, and a few moments later, she realizes why: the pale green thread that had been dangling from her needle is now grass green.

  
“That will be a good start, but you must remember to speak, my dear, or it will fade away again.”

  
“I will... Tarrant?”

  
“Yes?”

  
“Despite the fact that I’m pretty sure my half of the garden is going to look like rubbish next to yours...” And with his skill with a needle and thread under  _ normal _ circumstances, she feels this is a very safe assumption to make. “... thank you,” she says, hurriedly interrupting what he had no doubt intended to be a gentlemanly protest for the sake of her pride. “I’m glad to be here. Gardening with you.”

  
He leans forward, tilts her chin up with a gentle finger, and presses a brief kiss to the corner of her mouth. “And I as well, my Alice. Now, I shall just be across the aisle, so if you need any assistance...”

  
“You’ll be the first one I call.”

  
“Alice, I am the only other person here. Of course I will be first.”

  
Of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. All the flowers and trees mentioned in The Courtship are actual plants: White Champion Flower, Primroses, Bachelor's Buttons, Black-eyed Susans, Johnny Jump Ups, Trumpet Vines, Buttercups, Four o'Clocks, Harebell, Lady's Mantle, White Queen Flower, and Serviceberry Trees
> 
> 2\. A tove is a creature that is described to Alice by Humpty Dumpty in Through the Looking Glass. They have corkscrews for noses, nest under the sundial platform (called a "wabe") and eat cheese.


	26. Mud Pies

Tarrant stands and tends to his own side of the garden while Alice searches for a topic of conversation. The sun is warm on her arms and shoulders and the breeze plays with the strands of her hair that have already escaped the plait she’d woven into it that morning. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, sighs...

  
It is peaceful here, she realizes. Peaceful and yet wild in a way that the gardens at the castle never seem to be. She glances toward the tree line and wonders if these undomesticated brethren even speak the same Tree Language as the ones at Marmoreal.

  
Well, perhaps during a well-deserved break today, she’ll discover the answer to that question. Still, in order to  _ deserve _ a break, she will have to earn it. Alice picks up the White Champion Flower pattern from the soil and applies the buttercup one Tarrant had selected for her. She’s about to start the first stitch when it occurs to her that Tarrant knows very little about her life Above, her family. Yes, perhaps she will talk about that...

  
“Have you ever seen a bicycle?” she asks him suddenly.

  
“No, I don’t believe I’ve ever met such a creature,” he admits cheerfully. And so Alice describes it to him. They talk and stitch and it’s not until Alice must venture from the grassy aisle and into the soft earth of the garden that something – a flicker of memory – comes to her. Of course, it comes at precisely the wrong moment and Alice ends up windmilling her arms as the ground shifts beneath her right boot. She squeaks; the basket goes flying and patterns scattering and she lands hard on her rump with a bubble of laughter.

  
“Alice! Are you all right?”

  
“I’m fine!” she reassures her husband. He’d leapt to his feet and is clomping over to her in his own over-sized muck-about boots. When he reaches out a hand to help her up, she takes it, pulls herself into a sitting position, and thanks him for the rescue.

  
“My pleasure, Champion,” he replies with a wink and then gathers the scattered patterns for her before he clomps back across the grassy median.

  
Alice watches him go, her fingers digging deeply into the earth, marveling... remembering...

  
“After much consideration,” she begins, “I do believe this is the first garden I’ve created.” She glances over at Tarrant as he situates himself in his garden again.

  
“Yes, you said as much,” he replies, examining the thread on his gardening needle.

  
“Although I have the vague memory of  _ destroying _ one.”

  
He pauses, twitches, and she finds herself meeting his wide, worried eyes over his shoulder. She smirks and explains. “I was... five, I think. And my sister Margaret was nearly ten... and completely unbearable about it. And we were in the garden playing... No, no that’s not right.  _ She _ was sitting on the garden bench with her book and  _ I  _ was making mud pies...”

  
Alice giggles at the memory. “And Margaret... oh, she can be such a blasted know-it-all! She was lecturing me on something or other and I... well, I selected my very finest mud pie and— _ Splat! _ ” Alice claps her hands together to emphasize the impressiveness of the sudden attack. “I got her right on her white lace pinafore! Oh, she was  _ furious! _ ”

  
Caught up in the memory, Alice smiles broadly at her grubby hands. “Mother found us, covered from head to toe in mud and peony petals. We’d completely demolished the whole lot of those poor flowers.” She lets out a wistful sigh. “Getting caught had not been fun... but watching  _ Margaret _ getting caught... now  _ that  _ had been worth it!”

  
For a long moment, the meadow is quiet. Alice relishes the nearly-forgotten memory.

  
“Do you... miss your sister? Your mother?”

  
She blinks at the hesitant question and focuses on Tarrant’s drawn and pale features. “Sometimes,” she replies honestly. “But I miss who they  _ used  _ to be more than I miss them as they are now... I miss the simple times. When my father was alive and he didn’t care if my shoes were scuffed and my hands were dirty from playing outside, when my mother laughed and combed my hair, when my sister still had the sense to dream about the future...”

  
“They... do not do those things now?”

  
Alice sighs. “No. My father is... he passed away years ago. My mother has good intentions for me but I don’t agree with them. And my sister is a Lady, through and through. And you  _ know _ how much I hate being called a lady!”

  
Tarrant giggles and she smiles. The strain between them eases. “I should advise you to go back to them, your family,” he says. “But I am too glad that you returned to Underland. So I won’t. Advise you to do any such thing, I mean.”

  
“Good. Or I shall have to remember how to make mud pies so I can throw one at you!”

  
He blinks. “I should think the pie would be quite upset over being thrown. Food does tend to disagree with you when you mishandle it! And yet,” he continues in a pondering sort of tone, “the name of the food in question would suggest it is composed of... mud. And it is hard to imagine mishandled mud. Unless,” he continues, speaking faster with excitement, “the mud is not mud at all but some other poorly named Above edible?”

  
“Oh, no. It’s mud. M-U-D, mud,” Alice assures him. “You gather a bit in your hands like so,” she says demonstrating with a bit of too-dry soil... to his obviously increasing Horror. “Pack it a bit. Give it a pleasing shape and... voilà! Mud pie!”

  
He makes a face that is far too expressive to be anything but heartfelt disgust. “Blegh. That...doesn’t sound very appetizing, Alice.” This observation is stated with such careful tact that Alice can’t help but be tickled by it.

  
“They can’t possibly be all that popular,” he suddenly declares.

  
“Oh, but they are!” Alice manages to rebut. “Especially amongst children.”

  
He mutters, “Eating mud... shameful... horrid way to raise a child...”

  
Alice is too busy biting her lip (to keep herself from snorting out loud and ruining the joke) to correct him. Oh, goodness but he honestly thinks people Above eat mud pies!! Alice presses the back of her wrist (which is a bit sweaty but clear of dirt) over her mouth to contain the burst of laughter. Tarrant, however, is rather caught up in his righteous outrage and doesn’t notice her apoplectic fit of suppressed humor.

  
“Why,  _ my _ children shall never have to eat mud, certainly not!” he insists vehemently.

  
Suddenly, the harmless misunderstanding doesn’t seem quite so... amusing. Alice feels the laughter evaporate out from every pore on her being. She lowers her wrist and, blinking down at her own soil-caked fingers, sits back on her rump. Shocked. Numb. 

  
Children.

_   
Children! _

  
Oh, great galumphing mome raths...

  
For the first time, it occurs to Alice that the very act which she is so eagerly anticipating... the very state of matrimony in which Alice finds herself joined with Tarrant is... well, the  _ purpose _ of it is...

  
Children.

  
Her every thought hits that single consequence and simply...  _ stops. _

 


	27. Love and Marriage, Part 1

Tarrant had never expected a discussion of the odd foodstuffs of Above to result in a sudden, frigid silence permeating the sunny, warm atmosphere of their garden. (If anything, he would have expected Alice’s memories of her family to remind her of her true home and perhaps make her think of returning... of leaving him! Yes, he has feared the topic of her family, for they have always wielded a power over Alice that he never could: loyalty. But the mention of the people to whom she is bound with Family Ties had not shattered their companionable afternoon. The culprit had been nothing more ludicrous than  _ mud pies! _ Or had it...?) It’s not until he pauses, listens to the echoes of his own words in his ears that he  _ realizes  _ what he had just said, implied,  _ suggested... _

 

Hastily, he offers, “Hypothetically speaking. I mean, my children in a hypothetical sense. Not in an actual  _ child _ sense. Or having the state of childhood. I meant only were I... or, if you seemed inclined to... but none of that is really necessary, it’s just... a figure of speech. Yes, exactly.” A figure of speech indeed, and it had cut him out to be a Fool.

 

He waits- _ fidgets- ** dreads ** _ , hoping Alice has not been Offended by his remark. Why, it had been the height of Arrogance (and the fellow is quite tall as it is already!) to say such a thing and in such a manner (as if he assumes that Alice will want his... their...!) and he wonders rather frantically if it is too late to distract her with an offer of tea...

 

“I know a bit about marriages Above,” Alice murmurs and Tarrant twitches-marvels-blinks at the non sequitur. “But... I don’t know what they are here. If they’re the same or...”

 

Perhaps the topic he had unwittingly raised will be ignored after all? Applying himself to this new subject of conversation, Tarrant frowns as he considers the question Alice is not  _ actually _ asking. “In truth, I am rather unclear on that as well.”

 

“But... your parents...?”

  
“Aye, they were married, completed the Courting. Many Outlanders do. Did. Still, it’s a rare state in Underland.” Yes, he had explained that, hadn’t he? “Many couples elope, it’s true, but their Places do not merge in those cases. A shame, if you ask any Outlander, hence the popularity of the Courting.” 

  
He pauses, clears his throat, and dares to add, “I had always expected... were I to be moved to do so, I would court my Intended... ask for her hand... just as my...” Yes, just as the men and women of his clan had always done. And, as the last, does it not fall to him to uphold that tradition? Now that he has a reason to consider performing a courtship at all? 

 

He shakes his head, pulls himself back onto his train of thought, and concludes, “As I never... Well, it seemed silly to spare very many thoughts for marriage when I had not felt the inclination to  _ be  _ married, so, I’m afraid I know very little about it, in general.”

 

“That... could be a problem, couldn’t it?”

 

Alice sounds rather Worried about that. He turns on his knees so that he can see her clearly. Even in profile and at a distance he recognizes her frown. “Not necessarily! Why not make it what we wish it to be?”

 

Which begs the question... “What do you wish it to be?” Alice does not disappoint in asking.

 

Tarrant takes a deep breath and, still studying her profile, says the impressions that come to mind, _ as _ they come to mind. “I wish for you to want this... Marriage. With me. I want you to not regret it. I would like to share a home. Perhaps have tea on sunny days and coffee on gray ones. I would like to see your tunics keeping my waistcoats company in the wardrobe. And we shall have to find you some  _ practical _ footwear, Alice, if we are to go on walks in the woods so that you can practice speaking Tree—”

 

“As wonderful as all of that sounds...” she gently and quietly interrupts, “you didn’t really answer my question.”

 

“I believe I did.” Yes, he’s quite sure of it! “Perhaps if you asked the question that matches the answer you  _ meant _ for me to give you...?”

 

He watches as Alice closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, gathers her muchness and says, “What do you expect of me?”

 

Yet another odd sort of question, he opines. Further investigation is required: “What do you expect of yourself?”

 

She huffs, “Now you’re avoiding the question.”

 

“No, no!” His denial is accompanied by much gesticulation. “The question implies that you expect that something is expected of you and  _ that _ worries you. You would not be worried if you expected no expectations, but you  _ are  _ worried, thus you are contemplating several possibly unpleasant  _ somethings _ being expected of you.”

 

“I must be mad. That made perfect sense.”

 

He giggles and she smiles. Her shoulders relax, but the issue she had raised – and rather vaguely at that! – still oscillates between them. Daringly, he shuffles forward – careful to avoid disrupting the patterns he has already sewn – to the edge of the garden he is Sewing. He despairs at the distance between himself and Alice but holds himself back. This is a serious discussion. They should not allow their natural inclination to Come Together to sway their desires on this! Felling far too far away from his wife, he whispers, “Alice, why does our marriage worry you?” Why now? Or has she been worried for some time and now is the first opportunity she has found to bring his attention to it? Has she reconsidered the annulment? Had he done something to make her doubt her choice, her  _ faith _ in him?

 

Blast it! He  _ knew  _ he should have insisted on taking the sofa last night!

 

“What sort of marriage will this be?” Alice asks softly, hesitantly. And, for a moment, Tarrant thinks he must have imagined that timid inquiry. (Alice is  _ not  _ timid!)  When she prompts him with “... Tarrant?” he startles, realizing that  _ yes _ she  _ had _ just asked him a question,  _ that _ question .

 

“What would ye prefer, Alice?” he returns, his emotions pouring out in brogue.

 

For a moment, she does not reply. And then she admits, “I never thought about it much. Only... I knew only what I  _ didn _ ’ _ t _ want. Above... women do not... sail the world or have a role in business. They keep the home well-ordered and raise the children and... let their husbands take care of them.”

 

Ah... Tarrant experiences a glimmer of insight and offers: “I ’ m more than happy ta look after ye, ta take care o ’  ye... if ’ n tha ’ s whot ye want... bu ’ if ’ n ye ’ d like ta have a trade,  ’ twould please mae alsae.”

 

She nods, her expression furiously thoughtful. “And... children? What will you expect of me with regards to a family?”


	28. Love and Marriage, Part 2

For nearly an entire minute, he cannot breathe as he allows himself a painfully glorious moment to think of a future broad enough and bright enough and brave enough to accommodate such a thought.  _ Children... Bairns... _ He has never...  _ Never...! _

 

He forces himself to calm down, to take a deep breath. He stands and wobbles over on half-numb legs and stiff, old knees to where his wife is seated and collapses next to her.

  
“Alice,” he says, watching as his hand makes its way to hers. Damn the distance they ought to maintain! He will agree to whatever she desires! 

 

He manages to force his aching lungs to fill with air when she does not refuse his touch. Just one touch and he feels the ache – the bubble of pain – in his chest ease a bit. Just enough for him to think, to speak:

  
“Ye mun understand... I _ne ’er_ expected... afteh tha Bluddy Behg Hid... afteh mae clan... I ne’er expected mae heart ta b’mended. I ne’er hoped I’d feel love... like this. An’ I ne’er _dreamed_ tha ’ there woul’ be a lass who woul’ have mae, mad wi’ grief and fury as I was... _am_ , sometimes. Bu’ e’en afore aur Courtship, ye showed me hauw ta love, an’ ye accepted mae madness... Ye’ve taken away tha alone-ness...” 

  
That, in and of itself, is a miracle he will never be able to properly reciprocate. 

 

“ ’ Tis sae much ye ’ ve alrea ’ y given mae. I woul ’ nae ask fer more. Nae,” he muses, shaking his head, “whot can I gi ’ _ ye _ , Alice? Whot d ’ ye want?”

 

“I want you! And that’s the problem!” she replies on a rather aggressively sobbed laugh.

 

“How...” he murmurs, fear clutching its greedy hands around his throat. “How is that the problem?”

 

She lifts her hands, as if to run her dirty fingers through her hair and Tarrant lurches forward, gathers her wrists in his grip so that she does not foul herself. (She had seemed very disturbed indeed when she’d caught humming bird droppings in her hair. How upset will she be when she realizes this dirt contains a fair amount of tove refuse? And that she had smeared it all over her hair?) There’s a moment where he thinks she might actually wrestle her hands from his, but then she slumps down again, her hands dropping limply to her lap.

 

“How can that not be a problem? I may not know much about intimacy, but I know that’s how babies are made!”

 

Tarrant stares at her, utterly at a loss for words. Utterly and completely at a loss for words. “Gah...” he coughs. “Whewl...” he wheezes. “Nerj...” he hisses.

 

And then he giggles, snorts, guffaws and  _ laughs. _

 

“Tarrant! What could be funny about this?”

 

“You...” He sniggers. “Think that...” A bark of mirth. “Bairns come from...” A hiccup. “From...  _ that? _ ”

 

Her jaw drops open and, after a moment – during which he determines she is too busy staring at him to notice the fact that her mouth is hanging open – he raises a hand and gently pushes it shut.

 

“You... That...” She shakes her head, thinks some Thought that Tarrant wishes he could hear  _ clearly _ , and – with narrowed eyes – says, “That’s how it’s done Above. Not... here?”

 

“No, Alice. Bairns come from holding onto the one you lo—have chosen, clasped hands will suffice, and Wishing on a Star.”

 

Her nose twitches. Her brows arc. She is Skeptical. “Are you... sure?”

 

“Well! I’ve never done it myself, obviously!” Indeed! His children are hypothetical! Had he not just explained that?

 

“What I mean is,” she rallies, “doesn’t that sound like the sort of thing parents tell their children because they think they’re too young to... accept the facts of life?”

 

Tarrant giggles. “Alice, when I was a wee lad, my father told me that bairns come from the very act we are abstaining from at the present time. He told me  _ that _ so I would be properly horrified and wouldn’t get any ridiculous notions about becoming a father before I’d grown into my clan colors!”

 

Alice blinks at him once, twice, and then she snorts. Tarrant snorts back in reply and then they are giggling in perfectly mad counterpoint in the not-yet garden. Alice laughs so hard she has to grasp his arms to steady herself, despite the fact that she is still seated quite safely on the ground. Tarrant leans his forehead against the crown of her head and, as his humor exhausts itself, he sighs out the dregs.

 

“Tarrant?” his wife asks after a long, peaceful moment. “Were you horrified by the thought of... being with a woman like that?”

 

“As a wee lad. Oh, aye!” he’s not ashamed to admit. And he can only imagine the perpetual embarrassment of the people Above: imagine knowing that your parents had been completely unclothed and rutting against each other when you’d been conceived! What a perfectly vile mental picture to curse a child with!

 

Alice leans a bit further in toward him and murmurs, “And now? Do you still find it vile?”

 

He lifts his lips to kiss her slightly sweaty temple. Somewhere in all of this her hat had tumbled off of her head. He blames it on Laughter (which is usually a good sport about taking the blame for minor mishaps). “No, Alice. I don’t find it vile. Not any longer. Not with you.”

 

“And... being a father? Do you want that as well?”

 

He takes a deep breath, attempts to order his thoughts and form an opinion where none had existed only minutes ago. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I want to be your husband. I want to be your –  _ part  _ of your happiness.” Yes, he mustn’t assume that he will be the only source of Joy in Alice’s life! She may choose a trade, make friends of her own, go on marvelous adventures... of course, he hopes she’ll invite him to go along with her on those, but... “Is that enough?” he asks anxiously.

 

“Yes,” she assures him with a nod and a happy sigh. “It’s enough.”


	29. A Matter of Confidence, Part 1

Day by day, Alice becomes accustomed to Chessur’s presence at the breakfast table; blowing cat hair off of her plate before helping herself to edibles becomes second nature. She becomes accustomed to watching Tarrant don his hat before his ascot, vest, jacket, and shoes; more than once she’d experimented with the adaptability of his daily regime by  _ borrowing _ his hat... interestingly enough, he never  _ had _ elected to continue dressing without it firmly in its proper place. She becomes accustomed to calling him “husband” (an endearment she often employs with the sole intention of jerking his attention away from whatever oddity happens to be consuming it but which invariably results in a luminous smile and a husky reply, “Yes, my wife?”). She becomes accustomed to the progressive changes to the Room that is the Bottom of Her Heart and comes to look forward to the next addition: a hat-and-coat rack had been the most recent following the appearance of a very handsome gentleman’s writing desk. She becomes accustomed to the sheet-covered dress form that lurks mysteriously in the corner of her Room, mocking her inability to understand its purpose. She becomes accustomed to life without the Royal Court and croquet matches and long, formal dinners, and giggle interspersed gossip.

  
She also becomes accustomed to long baths during which she tries... and continually fails, to explore that which Tarrant wishes for her to one day teach him: her pleasure.

  
It evades her like a field mouse from a Bandersnatch. She feels too awkward, too inelegant, too clumsy and grasping and  _ desperate _ to enjoy much of anything. Day by day, she loses her motivation to try. And, day by day, she reminds herself of the reason she had agreed to  _ try. _ No, she had agreed to do more than  _ try! _ She had told Tarrant she would  _ find a way! _

  
The path to that knowledge however, is beginning to crumble beneath her feet at her lack of progress. Her enthusiasm dries up like drought-plagued vegetation. When it takes her a good five minutes to muster the impetus to apply the soapy wash cloth to her own knees (which are not unusually ticklish and could – in fact – do with a good scrubbing) she realizes that she must be going about this Wrong. (Most especially if her normal bathing routine is beginning to sour her stomach!) It is time to regroup, to rethink and re-hatch a plan.

  
Luckily, the plan she comes up with is utterly dashed to bits before she can live to regret it.

  
When she awakes the next morning, Tarrant is already up and about of course –  _ blast _ , but she’s going to need a case of insomnia to catch the man asleep! – but she doesn’t let that ruffle her. Still muzzy from sleep, she kisses his cheek, plops into her chair at the breakfast table, gestures to Chessur that he has cream on his whiskers that requires his attention, sips her tea and thinks positive!

  
Yes, there is absolutely no reason whatsoever to not take her...  _ concerns _ to the Queen. Yes, it will be an uncomfortable conversation, but she is determined to minimize the discomfort. She will present the facts, request reference materials or – in the event that tomes on the subject of a woman’s enjoyment of... intimacy are not available in Underland – demand anecdotal evidence.

_   
Stay positive! _ she reminds herself, as Tarrant pours her a second cuppa.

  
“Why, Alice,” Chessur drawls. “If I didn’t know any better... I’d think you were plotting something.”

  
“Plotting?” she parrots, trying her best to look surprised and not surprisingly guilty.

  
“I must concur,” Tarrant contributes, leaning his chin on his hand and pondering her expression. “ _ That _ is the look of a Plot Thickening...”

  
“It couldn’t possibly—!” she denies.

  
“But it is,” he states flatly.

  
“And, as Tarrant has quite a bit of experience with those sorts of political maneuvers, I’m afraid you’ll just have to admit that he’s correct,” Chessur informs her with irritating superiority. Alice manages to not glare at him... for  _ too _ long.

_   
Eight more days, _ she reminds herself. Surely, she has the fortitude (or, failing that, the stubbornness) to make it through the remaining mornings of their Courtship without finding a way to cover Chessur in honey and sic the humming birds on him... Although she  _ does _ enjoy the mental image of that  _ unrepentantly _ .

  
“Now, Alice, all I ask for is the truth,” Tarrant assures her, drawing her attention away from retribution. He removes his cuff links and shakes his wrists a bit. She notices his quirked brows and realizes he’s attempting to remind her of their bargain – he is asking in his shirtsleeves so she must answer honestly whatever question he poses. And the one he chooses this morning is:

  
“ _ Are _ you Plotting something?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Ah!” he replies, leaning back in his seat, looking (bewilderingly) both relaxed and delighted. “Do you require any assistance?”

  
“Not at the present time,” she assures him, marveling that he is not pressing for Details.

  
“But you will let me know if that changes?”

  
“Of course.” It’s an easy promise to make, especially since she has no intention of failing.

  
Tarrant’s easy acceptance of her plan, whatever it is, actually solves a problem that she had been anticipating: how to excuse herself from his presence long enough to do what Must Be Done and yet  _ not _ reveal precisely What She Is Up To. Following breakfast and quick bit of washing up and expeditious dressing, Alice sees no reason to Put Things Off.

  
“Tarrant,” she says, pulling him away from inspecting his jacket for needful repairs and mending.

  
“Yes, my dear?”

  
“I’ll be going out for a bit,” she tells him baldly.

  
His brows twitch. “Is this pertaining to that Plot you have Thickened?”

  
“Yes. I believe it’s at the proper consistency now.”

  
“May I offer any assistance?”

  
“No, thank you, but you may wish me luck.”

  
He giggles, stands, gathers her bare hands in his, and, kissing her knuckles one at a time, whispers a word between each swift press of his warm lips to her skin, “Good luck, Champion Alice. May you return speedily and victorious.”

  
And with a blessing like that, how can she not?

  
Indeed. How can she not?

  
“Are you quite certain?” Alice asks the fish butler stationed outside the castle kitchens. She’d very nearly traipsed through the entire castle (and then some!) looking for the Queen – the painting over the mantle in the Queen’s parlor had sent her to the library and (after a peek at the titles, none of which had seemed very... informative on the subject she is attempting to research) the rug there had pointed her toward the conservatory... where a planter of rather enthusiastic Johnny Jump Ups had ordered her to the East Gardens and so on! And now, here she is after  _ finally _ having located a frog footman who had managed a comprehensible croak and the fish butler is  _ insisting _ ... 

  
“Yes, Champion Alice. I’m afraid the Queen was  _ most _ adamant. She is working with a very delicate recipe to-day and must not be disturbed.”

  
“Well, would you happen to know when she might be finished?”

  
“By Tuesday, most definitely.”

  
“Tues...! But to-day is  _ Friday! _ ”

  
“It does appear to be so.”

  
Oh, bloody everlasting—!

  
Alice glowers at the closed doors, as if the Queen will somehow sense her frustration and answer the mute summons. Nothing happens. And Alice has no way of knowing if the castle – Beniford (and she  _ still  _ isn’t used to the idea of the castle itself  _ watching _ her!) – has informed the Queen of Alice’s petition to see her.

  
She resists gritting her teeth, stamping her foot, or something equally juvenile and unhelpful and proposes, “Perhaps if I left a note for you to slip under the door?”

  
“The doors object to such treatment, Champion Alice, on account of the ticklish sensation it causes which they cannot address.”

  
“... Oh.”

  
With a sigh that feels as if it has laboriously traveled up from the very soles of her feet, Alice concedes defeat and turns away. She does not head back to the suite, however. She is not ready to let Tarrant see her so disappointed and despondent, especially after all the marvelously thoughtful luck he had wished her!

  
She has a vague thought of finding Mally and ask the dormouse to... expand on her instructions. But... Mally will want to know  _ why _ Alice requires this advice even though she is on her  _ honeymoon. _ The fact that Alice has questions of this nature will imply that something is  _ wrong _ between her and Tarrant, for he is her  _ husband  _ and would she not take these matters to him? By asking Mally, Alice will be giving the dormouse the impression that  _ Tarrant  _ has not been... sufficiently taking Alice’s Needs into account (after all, they  _ are _ on their honeymoon and people will naturally assume that she and her husband are doing the sorts of things that newly-wed married couples  _ do _ ) which might lead to very uncomfortable and unforgivable misunderstandings. No, Alice most assuredly does not want Mally to confront Tarrant (on Alice’s behalf and despite Alice’s reassurances that everything is  _ fine _ ) over his poor...  _ performance _ . Why, the accusation itself – utterly false though it is – would not only damage Tarrant’s friendship with Mally but also his own confidence; she would rather  _ lie _ to him – tell him that she  _ has _ found a way to enjoy her own touch – than allow him to believe that his friend would think so little of him. Nor would Tarrant be particularly pleased to know that Alice had discussed such intimate matters with  _ his  _ friend.

  
Yes, talking to Mally would  _ not _ be a Good Idea.

  
But whom else is there?

  
Alice bites back a growl of frustration as she plods along the corridor. Surely, there must be  _ someone _ in whom she can confide!


	30. A Matter of Confidence, Part 2

“La! Lady Alice!”

  
Alice nearly trips over the toes of her slippers at the cheerful call. She puts out her arms, stumbles (but manages not to fall flat on her face on the hall runner carpet), and then turns toward the familiar voice.

  
“Lady Alice! Whatever are you doing out and about! La! This is your honeymoon, yes?”

  
Pushing aside the gauzy layers of See To Not Fro Curtains (a rather interesting invention permitting the occupants on one side of the curtain to see through it clearly to the occupants on the other while  _ those  _ occupants cannot see who is on the other side watching them) which separate the hall from a conveniently-placed balcony, Alice is a  _ little _ surprised to find Lady Philomena taking tea alone at a small table that is fairly groaning under the load of the full tea service it must bear. Alice has  _ never _ seen Lady Philomena alone before – the woman  _ loves  _ people and conversation and the whole courtier experience! – and eyes the chair opposite the woman warily. Perhaps she is waiting for someone? But whom?

  
The gregarious lady sets down her cup, pats her artfully piled hair, and stands. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Lady Alice, although I hope your appearance alone and so soon after Tying The Knot does not indicate any... trouble?”

  
“Oh, no,” Alice insists, resignedly sinking into the seat Philomena holds out for her and accepting a cup of tea and a slice of battenburg. “No trouble at all! I merely had an issue that I wished to discuss with the Queen, but...”

  
“Ah, yes. She is behind Closed Doors. La! She works too hard, does she not? So talented, our White Queen!”

  
“Very,” Alice manages and wonders just what the sum total of the Queen’s skills is...

  
“La... I am so happy to see you! I have missed you, Lady Alice! And... also... I wish to apologize for the Lobster Quadrille...”

  
“Apologize?” Alice echoes. Goodness! She had nearly forgotten all about it! “No! It should be me who... It is  _ you _ who is owed the apology! Why, I left so suddenly and—”

  
“You  _ had  _ to leave,” Philomena insists in a surprisingly compassionate tone. “Your Intended was clearly distressed to see you attending the event with another man. Perhaps you remember my thoughtless comment before the jellyfishing had started, yes?”

  
Indeed Alice does.

  
“I admit I was rather puzzled by your choice of Intended,” Philomena declares on a confidential whisper. “I could not understand why you would choose the Royal Hatter – surely any number of gentlemen here at court would have been pleased to assist you with Sorting Out the Object of Your Affections! But then we realized that not only had the two of you left the Luckluster Library with your Key, but the Locksmith had agreed to weave your Lock! Oh, la! Lady Alice, we were  _ sure _ – and Sir Geoffrey in particular was  _ quite  _ concerned – that, you being from Above – were being  _ led _ through the courtship. Coerced, even! Oh, la... we were so  _ worried! _ ”

  
“But you needn’t have been, truly—” Alice interjects when the woman stops for breath.

  
“Ah, I understand now! Seeing the two of you sharing your Feelings through the Crown, Knowing each other’s Heart... oh, it was quite clear then! He  _ is _ your Intended and please accept my humble apologies for creating difficulties between the two of you!”

  
“I...” Alice pauses, replays the woman’s monologue, and summarizes, “You really  _ did _ think that – somehow – Tarrant was... forcing me to complete the Courting?”

  
“The Royal Hatter? Oh, well...” For the first time in Alice’s memory, the woman appears to be at a loss for words. “Well... we had all seen the way the Queen looked at the two of you and we thought... well, we  _ feared  _ that the two of you might feel...  _ compelled _ to comply with her... encouragement – no one wants to disappoint Our Queen! Why it would break my heart should I do so! – and... Well, we simply did not wish for you to be... maneuvered into something you would regret.”

  
Alice sips her tea and considers that. Philomena seems quite sincere in her remorse, however... her explanation for why she and Sir Geoffrey had attempted to come between Alice and Tarrant... 

  
She sighs. “I don’t think that’s entirely true, Lady Philomena,” she says as gently yet as forthrightly as she can. “I have seen the way everyone sneers at my Inten—my husband. As if he is... As if you all  _ believed  _ he is...”

  
“Not a suitable match for a lady and a Champion,” Philomena concludes. “Which, in all honesty, Lady Alice, he is not.”

  
Closing her eyes briefly and gathering her Patience, Alice replies, “You are under a misapprehension, Lady Philomena: I am  _ not _ a lady. True, the Queen offered me the honor but I declined. And my work as a Champion is finished. I do not know what I will do with my life, but those are two things I have considered and... set aside. Deliberately.”

  
“Oh... la... Lady Alice!”

  
“Just Alice, please.”

  
Philomena looks rather uncomfortable with that. “I... Oh, my. And the Queen let us believe she had Honored you with a title so that we would not... Ah, I see our error now.” She glances down at her most likely now-cold tea. “We would have appreciated your efforts on behalf of Underland, but we would not have... welcomed you so warmly if not for your title.”

  
Alice marvels at the frank appraisal of the White Court’s prejudices by one of its own. “I would not have tried to force you to,” she attempts to comfort the woman.

  
“Ah, but then we would not have met, Lady... Miss Alice. And that thought is a sad one, truly! Perhaps we have not understood each other well in the past, but I have greatly enjoyed your company!”

  
Alice smiles. “You are very kind. Knowing you has been... an adventure in itself.” Which is true and, Alice admits, the adventure – while a bit long-winded – had never been Unpleasant... (Well, except for when Philomena had deigned to inform her of the Courting Rules, but Alice suspects she would have been cross with whomever had been the bearer of that message.)

  
“Then, shall we start again, Miss Alice?” Philomena asks, hope shining in her kohl-rimmed eyes.

  
“We shall,” Alice declares, following her instincts which tell her that Philomena truly does mean well.

  
“Oh, thank you, Miss Alice!”

  
“Alice,” she corrects her once again. “I’m no longer a  _ miss _ , am I?”

  
“La! You are correct! And what must your husband think with me delaying you for so long!”

  
“It’s fine,” Alice says, waving the woman back to her seat before she can forcibly eject Alice from the balcony and back into the corridor. A half-formed idea – most likely an unwise one – had just occurred to her and she would like to follow through on at least  _ one  _ of her ideas today! 

  
Alice informs her, “I have some time yet.” And, in all honesty, she had best use it well. She is not sure she wants Tarrant to know that her Plot had been foiled. (For she is sure he will eventually discover precisely what she had Plotted and then... No, she will not fail him!)  



	31. Philomena's Suggestion

“If I may make an observation?” Philomena softly inquires.

  
“Please,” Alice returns.

  
“You do not  _ seem _ as fine as you say. Are things... progressing... poorly with...?”

  
Alice blinks at her. Frowns. “Why would you think  _ that  _ of all things?” Her tone is too defensive, she knows, but –  _ damn it _ – people should not  _ assume _ that Tarrant is incapable of being a loving and gentle husband simply because he is occasionally mad and  _ not _ a titled gentleman!

  
“You are here... and you are not smiling so much it makes the very air as sweet as sugar. La... something  _ is  _ wrong.” She nods sagely to this announcement. “Why else seek the Queen’s counsel? And  _ now? _ Your only thoughts should be of new love and all the pleasures that accompany it when unhindered by rules and chaperones!”

  
“I’m afraid you are under another misapprehension, Lady Philomena—”

  
“Call me Mena, please!”

  
Alice feels a smile twitch the corners of her lips upward. “Mena. Tarrant and I discussed our... sudden marriage and... we’ve decided to complete our Courtship.  _ Properly. _ ”

  
“Properly?” the woman parrots. “But the two of you have been residing in the same room for nearly a week and—”

  
“And we are still chaperoned,” Alice interjects firmly. “Although it  _ has  _ been lovely living together. Quite frankly, I’ve missed him. Before we began courting, Tarrant was my best friend,” she explains. “It’s wonderful to have that freedom back.”

  
Philomena, to Alice’s surprise, grabs her napkin and dabs at her eyes. “Oh, la! Alice, you will ruin my face paint!”

  
“I’m sorry...”

  
“No, no! Do not be sorry, Alice! You have a love that would frighten most of us. That is why the White Court behaves the way it does, you know! To Open your Heart... oh, it  _ is  _ a wonderfully frightening business! And to share your Heart...! And the garden that follows...!” she shakes her head. “You are braver than any of us!”

  
“What is so frightening about growing a garden with one’s Intended?” Alice asks.

  
Philomena blinks at her for a minute and then exclaims, “La! But of course! You have  _ already _ Seen into your husband’s Heart, through the Crown of Underland!”

  
Alice’s brows twitch with Questions. Luckily, Philomena is very generous with Answers.

  
“La! You know so very little about the Courting! It is a crime, Alice! You see,” Philomena explains, “the Garden must have all the phases of life within it – that is what it represents: your New Life with your Intended. There is the Flower Bed, of course!” She winks. “And the Fruitful Venture – that is what we all hope to gain through marriage, is it not? Sweet Rewards? – and the rather unfortunate Vegetative State followed by the Spice of Life!”

  
Alice blinks. “That is... remarkable.”

  
“Oh, la! But you have not learned the half of it! The  _ purpose _ of the garden is to  _ show _ the strength of your feelings for your Intended. That is why you Sew with a Thread of Conversation as you Speak From the Bottom of Your Heart! Not every Courting couple is offered the chance to Know the Heart of their Intended through the Crown of Underland!  _ That _ is usually done by sharing the Fruits of Your Labors.”

  
“The... fruits of...?”

  
Philomena sighs dramatically, shaking her head. “No one has told you. For shame! Just because you already  _ Know _ his Heart...! Alice,” she continues, “before a couple chooses to wed, they each nurture a fruit or vegetable of their choice, infuse it with their feelings for their Intended, and invite him – or her! – to take a bite. To have a Taste of Your Feelings.”

  
“A taste of...”

  
“La, yes! It is  _ so  _ romantic! The Queen should have explained! Although she  _ is _ quite busy...”

  
“I’m sorry,” Alice inserts before her new friend can rattle on about the Queen’s considerable responsibilities. “Are you saying that I can  _ show _ Tarrant how I feel... through something I’ve grown in our garden?”

  
“Yes! Precisely.”

  
“Oh... well... that’s...” Brilliant. Absolutely  _ brilliant! _ Alice grins broadly. Tarrant had encouraged her to plant a  _ wide variety _ of greenery – flowers (of course), herbs, vegetables, and fruit (although he had blushed slightly with the last suggestion). She had even started a blueberry and raspberry bush the day before! Why, the magic of Underland permitting, she should be able to ripen those berries with her feelings for Tarrant – feelings which are growing; she can feel that very clearly! – and  _ show _ him how she... that she...

  
“I’m so glad you told me this, Mena,” Alice says, her mind swimming with possibilities.

  
“La, it was my pleasure, Alice!”

  
At the mention of the word  _ pleasure _ , Alice blinks, returns to the present with a hard – if completely imaginary –  _ thud! _

  
Yes. Pleasure. There is still  _ that  _ to work out. Alice hesitates, biting her lower lip as she weighs the vague inclination she had felt earlier, the notion of initiating the discussion she had Plotted to have with the Queen... with Philomena instead.

  
Well, what could be the harm? Yes, perhaps the woman will gossip about it, but that will not reflect poorly on Tarrant, not if Alice phrases things delicately. Should gossip abound, Alice will be the only one to suffer any embarrassment... and then only if she does not arm herself against it! And, honestly, isn’t a little embarrassment only a  _ small _ price to pay for Tarrant’s peace of mind? For the reassurance she owes him?

  
“Mena,” Alice begins with Determination.

  
“Yes?”

  
“You were right earlier. About my reason for seeking out the Queen. I... may I speak frankly? About a personal matter?”

  
“Of course you may, Alice! La, I may be rather fond of the sound of my own voice, but I can and do keep secrets!”

  
Alice still cannot see how revealing this one will harm anyone other than herself, so she proceeds: “Before the end of our Courtship, I would like... That is, Above, women are not encouraged to... investigate the... pleasant aspects of... pleasure. Physical intimacy, I mean. I would like to know what to expect. And Tarrant has encouraged me to... research this so that... well...” Yes, how to conclude now that she’s started? Alice flounders.

  
“La!  _ Alice _ ,” Philomena sighs. Rather than looking embarrassed, she looks... sad. “Above is not kind to women, I think. Not if withholding such  _ necessary _ knowledge from a woman is common practice!”

  
“It is, I’m afraid. We are taught to preserve our virtue for our future husband, that marriage and childbearing are our duties. There is no mention of pleasure or enjoyment at all... except to warn us that women who  _ do _ freely enjoy the... attentions of men are... not worthy of respect.”

  
“La! That is an  _ outrage! _ ” Philomena nearly shouts and then glancing around, lowers her voice. “There is no disrespect in enjoying such things, Alice! I hope  _ someone _ has explained that marriage and even intimacies between two people are very different here in Underland!”

  
Alice nods. “Yes, that has been made clear to me.” And if it had not been clear before, Philomena’s passionate objection would have settled her doubts on the issue. Alice smiles, touched that Philomena is so concerned for her. “But the enjoyment of... Well, my recent attempts to, er,  _ explore _ that have been...” She gestures weakly, aimlessly, and winces.

  
“Ah... I understand, Alice.”

  
With a sigh of relief, Alice wets her dry mouth with a gulp of lukewarm tea and subsides as her companion gathers her thoughts on the matter.

  
“Well, first of all...” the woman begins. “La! It has been so  _ long  _ since I have advised a woman on... these matters. Ahem, yes. Now... First of all, you must daydream of pleasant things. Desirable things...”

  
Alice nods. “Yes, I have... employed that technique.”

  
“You must be comfortable and feel safe,” she continues to lecture.

  
Again, Alice admits that is true. (In fact, knowing that Tarrant is in the other room, separated from her by only his clothing and a single door, has enhanced the warm feelings tingling through her during her bathing time.) Alice is both relieved that she had been doing something right and disturbed that, despite that, she has not succeeded.

  
“Perhaps having something that smells of him will assist...”

  
Once again, that is a point Alice has covered – the bathing room smells of his soap which reminds her of how it combines with his own warm aroma and musk of arousal...

  
“In addition, I would suggest that your technique of stimulation be slowed and... indirectly applied.”

  
“Slowed? Lingering, you mean?”

  
“Yes, just so!”

  
“And... indirect?” Alice admits she cannot fathom how that would be done.

  
Philomena considers her for a moment and then inquires, “Do you happen to have a silk scarf amongst your possessions? Or a sizable plume? La! Do you, by any chance, own a pair of leather gloves? Soft to the touch and with hidden seams?”

  
“I do...” she says, recalling the pair she had found with her Royal Tailor-made winter wardrobe. Alice had arrived at Marmoreal with only the clothes on her back and a satchel containing her most precious possessions from her old life; the Queen had commissioned the Royal Tailor to make her a full wardrobe after the greetings had been exchanged and the Welcome Back tea ordered (a special brew reserved specifically for Homecomings).

  
“Use those,” Philomena suggests. “Close your eyes, daydream, breathe deeply, linger your explorations and... wear those gloves. You’ll be  _ very  _ pleased with the results!”

  
And because her new friend is so obviously confident of her own advice, Alice takes it... with thanks.


	32. Philomena's Suggestion, Part 2

Later that evening, after Alice had enjoyed another cup of tea with her new friend, after she had giggled with Philomena over Sir Patrick’s latest run-in with Thackery – “La! The man should know better than to steal bread and butter from a Mad March Hare!” – and after Alice had accused Philomena of waiting for someone  _ special _ out here on the concealed balcony (to which the lady had blushed and blustered  _ most _ entertainingly), Alice informs Tarrant of her intent to take a bath.

  
He takes a deep breath but his smile remains friendly and undimmed. “As always, take care not to slip, my dear.”

  
Alice does not tell him that, in handful of days, he will be most welcome in assisting her with climbing into the bath tub. No, she does not tell him that, but oh, how she wants to! Alice rubs his shoulder as she passes by his armchair, where he is reading one of the books Alice had brought with her from Above (a compilation of Shakespeare’s best works... currently he is giggling his way through  _ Much Ado About Nothing _ ), and gathers her nightdress, robe, slippers, and – resisting a guilty glance over her shoulder – her pair of ladies kid leather gloves.

  
Her hands shake so she clutches the bundle to her chest as she moves toward the bathroom. She is nervous tonight, although not unaccountably so. Tarrant had noticed her grin of triumph when she had returned from her Plotting. He had congratulated her on a successful mission. She  _ should _ feel optimistic.

  
She feels as if this is her last chance. As if – if she fails  _ now _ – the opportunity will be lost forever. She does not want to lie to Tarrant – not even a White One! – but she will... if she has to.

  
Alice closes the bathing room door, but does not lock it. She has never locked a single door between herself and Tarrant (well, not intentionally – the door to their Rooms in the fourth floor hall of the West Wing’s Round Turret had locked of its own accord behind her) and she will not begin locking doors between them now. The idea that he might be thinking of her, in here, touching and exploring and thinking of  _ him _ ... The idea that he might be  _ compelled _ to investigate, to be near her, nuzzle her neck, lick the shell of her ear...

  
Alice shivers. She does not bother to draw a bath. Not yet. First, she will...

  
“Woul’ ye like some assistance, mae Alice?” the figment of her husband whispers over her shoulder and into her ear.

  
She nods and lifts her hands to guide his fingers as he removes her tunic. Of course he is not  _ really  _ here with her – this is just another episode provided by her imagination – but she relishes the contact with him, such as it is.

  
The tunic is dropped to the floor and Alice lifts her hands to her chemise... But then she pauses and reaches for the gloves she had placed on the bathroom vanity. She pulls them on, enjoying the soft, all-inclusive friction as her fingers then knuckles then palms slide into their depths. Alice closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, lifts her gloved hands to the ties of her chemise and...

  
“Alice...” the Tarrant-that-is-not-there moans softly in her ear... and places his hands over her clothed breasts. She gasps as his fingers – and they must be his fingers because she cannot feel her own hands touching her breasts; there is a vague sense weight in her palms but the majority of the sensation itself blossoms in the flesh these gloved hands hold; oh, Philomena had been right! These gloves are... are...  _ miraculous! _ – Tarrant’s masculine hands handle her as he had the batten at their morning tea. He cradles the rounded flesh and his thumbs brush over the pebbled tips.

  
“I want ta see ye,” he sighs needily and Alice nods. The chemise ties loosen after a bit of fumbling that makes her heart race with anticipation. And then his hands – encased in leather that is slightly cool to the touch – are molding to her breasts, pinching and rolling and tugging her nipples.

  
“ _ Yes _ ,” she gasps. “ _ Tarrant... _ ”

  
“Sit dauwn, mae wife... Let me... Aye, just like that, mae Alice... Let me...”

  
She does. She sinks down onto the vanity bench, facing away from the mirror, and simply  _ feels _ as Tarrant’s hands encircle her throat and flow down, crossing over her chest, ghosting over her sensitive breasts, and then coming to rest on her thighs.

  
“Ye’re still wearing tae much,” he observes.

  
“ _ Then take them off _ ,” she pleads, lifting her hips to accommodate the removal of her breeches. She kicks them away and his hands return to her thighs. She marvels at how...  _ marvelous  _ this feels. She does not feel the texture of her own skin; she feels only his touch which has warmed with each pass over her body. She nudges her hips toward his hands as they slide up the inside of her thighs slowly...  _ very _ slowly.

  
“D’ye want mae, Alice?”

  
“ _ Yes... _ ”

  
“Tell mae,” he growls, his fingers digging in to her skin just a bit, as if that pressure will stop their mindless advance.

  
“ _ I want you.  _ _ ** Please ** _ _ , Tarrant _ ,” she begs – she is not above begging for this, for him, for this vague promise of fulfillment.

  
“Alice...”

  
The hands move higher. The tips of his fingers brush through the curls surrounding the warm entrance to her body.

  
“Ah...  _ Alice... _ ”

  
One finger gently ventures further, finds slickness, circles the swelling folds of her femininity.

  
“D’ye want this?”

  
“ _ Yes... _ ”

  
“But no’quite yet,” he differs, dragging that fingertip up to the bundle of nerves Alice remembers feeling pulse and throb when he had kissed her, had rolled atop of her, had fit his hips to the cradle of hers and  _ thrust _ with mindless Want through layers of berry-stained cloth.

  
“ _ Ah...! _ ”

  
The other hand finds its way into her unbound hair before trailing with possessive assertiveness down the side of her neck to her breast, which it palms, weighs, and squeezes gently. Just then, his fingertip – smooth and slick – circles that place within her folds.

  
“ _ Hngh! _ ”

  
“Aye... tha’s it, mae Alice. Give in ta mae...”

  
She does. Unashamed, she rocks toward him, opens her thighs a bit more, inviting –  _ demanding – _ his undivided attention. He runs one hand over the inside of her thigh as the other drifts down toward her opening again, dares to enter a bit further than before and then withdraws, circles that sensitive flesh and rises once more to those delightful yet so fickle nerves and rubs left and right, to and fro...

  
“ _ Tarrant...  _ _ ** more ** _ _ ... _ ”

  
He gives it to her. One long finger delves inside her while his thumb attends to the bundle of compact Desire above her entrance. With his other hand, he grasps her thigh, her breast, her neck...

  
“Alice... mae Alice... mae wife... how does that feel?” he whispers hotly against the skin of her shoulder. He kneels between her open knees and she moans when his hand moves. He pulls out of her and then gently presses back in. His thumb draws horridly  _ naughty  _ circles on her pleasure point.

  
She gasps as he crooks his finger within her, massaging  _ something _ that makes her hips buck and her back arch. “ _ ** Tarrant! ** _ ”

  
“Alice? Alice, are you all right?”

  
“ _ Yes... _ ” she replies in surrender. He is  _ inside _ her and his movements are... so... very...! And... she... wants...  _ more...! _ “ _ Please... _ ”

  
She thinks she vaguely hears the sound of brass fixtures rattling nearby but can’t be bothered to check. Tarrant is panting in her ear, murmuring to her in Outlandish, urging her thrusts with a hand on her hip and she opens even wider to him.

  
“Alice...”

  
“ _ Don _ ’ _ t stop... _ ” she gasps.

  
“ _ Alice... _ ”

  
Yes, just like that. She can do nothing less than surrender completely when he says her name just so, just so perfectly, breathlessly...

  
“ _ Please _ ,” she whispers again, gasps, and groans as he presses deeper into her than he had dared before. She can feel the heat and the need and it is coalescing... building... “ _ Tell me how... _ ” she whines, her eyes still tightly shut and her lower lip caught in her teeth and her hair spilling over her shoulders, teasing her breasts.

  
“ _ Tarrant! Tell me what to do...! _ ”


	33. Effects of Passion

He tries not to think about what Alice does in the bathing room. He tries not to imagine her nimble fingers unbuttoning buttons and untying ribbons and pushing her clothing from her shoulders and down her hips.

  
No, it’s best to tell himself that Alice is merely sitting at the vanity in the unmentionable room, writing a letter. Or perhaps composing a riddle. Or even creating a shopping list.

  
He clears his throat, adjusts his reading glasses, and forces himself to  _ focus  _ on the print on the page in front of him. He manages the task fairly well... even if he seems incapable of moving beyond the same line:

_   
Why, what effects of passion shows she? _

  
Tarrant feels his brows twitch as he reminds himself to  _ read _ and not imagine answers to that question.

  
He is not sure how long he lectures himself on this. Long enough to clutch at his wife’s one-of-a-kind book. Long enough to feel rather uncomfortable in his current seat. Long enough to think he ought to be thinking about something that does not make his body tingle.

  
And then he hears something that is not a part of his self-chastisement. He tilts his head to the side and glances toward his... right? Yes, that had sounded as if it had come from the unmentionable room – whatever that small noise had been. It had been too low and too fleeting for him to properly identify. When it does not come again, he turns back to the book, the page, the line that has snagged his attention:

_   
Why, what effects of passion shows she? _

  
“Tarrant...”

  
He startles as the ear he had kept pointed toward the bathing room door rings with the sound of his name – it had been said quietly, but quite clearly! He hesitates for a moment and then snaps the book closed and sets it aside. He pushes himself up and out of the chair and strides toward the door. He opens his mouth to ask if his wife is all right...

  
“ _ Tarrant...! _ ”

  
Startled, he presses a hand against the door, reaches for the knob and says, “Alice?” He waits as long as he can stand – that is, a moment that feels entirely too long but probably hadn’t been – and then calls once more, “Alice, are you all right?”

  
“ _ Yes... _ ” she moans –  _ moans! _ – and Tarrant listens as his fingernails scrape against the painted wood of the door. He knows that moan, knows what it signifies...

  
He gasps as desire so hot and sudden  _ slams  _ into him it forces the air from his lungs. He can no longer pretend that he does not know what his wife is doing... and now he knows she is imagining  _ him _ with her, as she touches her own body, as she gives herself pleasure...

  
His left hand tightens around the brass door knob.

  
He Wants...

  
“ _ Please... _ ” his wife sighs.

_   
Yes, _ he thinks, agreeing to give her whatever she is asking for. The door knob turns beneath his hand, clicks and rattles with his sudden haste. It is that very sound that reaches through his frantic need and makes him pause.

  
No.

_   
No! _

_   
Remember your promise! _

  
He clenches his jaw and peels his fingers from the door knob with the force of his will. “Alice...” Her name is a mantra that holds the power to beat back his madness, to remind him of why he must not cross this threshold.

  
“ _ Don _ ’ _ t stop! _ ”

  
He whines out a long sigh. “ _ Alice... _ ” No, he must not enter that room, but there is no force that can make him leave the threshold, where he now stands. He presses his forehead against the portal, ignoring the way his reading glasses dig into the bridge of his nose. Against the wood, his left hand scrabbles for something to cling to. His right hand...

  
Tarrant gasps-screams-breathes his wife’s name as the palm of his hand passes over the front of his trousers, caressing the hardness that he has discovered (and accepted) that he has very little control over. He rubs against his own hand, hips twitching forward and then...

  
Alice begs him again: “ _ Please _ ...”

  
He rips the buttons from their holes with little regard for the fabric. He clings to the Here and Now with his blunt, stained fingernails which are pressed against the smooth surface of the door. He moves in counterpoint to the motions of his hand; he can feel the inevitable coming; he has no way of distracting himself, of staving off his release; it has been well over a week since he had last indulged and now Alice is calling out to him in her pleasure and he  _ Wants...! _

  
“ _ Tell me how... _ ” she pleads and he groans against the door. He imagines her bare and flushed and arching into him as he drives into her and she is so close and he will bring her the pleasure she seeks – he will show it to her, be the one who gives it to her...!

  
“ _ Tell me what to do! _ ”

  
Ah, she is nearly there!  _ Nearly! _ _ Yes, oh Underland, yes. Just a bit more, Alice. Move with me. Give me just a bit more, lass. Can you feel it coming over you? The heat? The tension? That _ ’ _ s right, my Alice, let it sweep you away. I _ ’ _ ll catch you. I’ll not let you fall from my arms... _

  
He barely hears his own voice, distorted with heaving breaths, groan and stutter and  _ mutilate _ Outlandish. He will regret it if Alice ever learns the language because she will never let him forget the fact that he had been unable to speak a coherent sentence as he had listened to her as she had... and he had... and only a wooden door had kept him from sheathing his swollen sex in hers and...!

  
“ _ ** Tarrant! ** _ ”

  
He pants against the wood of the door as his hips jerk uncontrollably. He braces his shoulder against the portal and struggles to catch the surging tide of his release in his left hand even as his right calls it forth. This time, with no madness to suffocate the feeling, he rides the intensity of it from start to finish. And finish he does.

  
He slumps against the door, his trousers open and shoved down his hips, and fumbles for his handkerchief, which he uses to clean himself up as best he can. His chest still rises and falls with his labored breaths, but he doesn’t bother to feel ashamed of that. No, he suspects he’ll have more than enough to be ashamed over just as soon as Alice finishes with her bath – although, by the sound of the surprised and strangled feminine grunt, she had managed to Finish just as he had! – and returns to their suite with an accusation on the tip of her inconsolably distracting tongue.

  
He sighs. He thinks of that tongue and the lips that conceal it and the flavor he remembers of them and he would give his top hat for a kiss from her – soft and willing and smiling with post-coital bliss – right now.

  
But Tarrant knows he cannot have that. He  _ must  _ not have that. He continues leaning on the door, listening to the sounds of her moving about, turning on the squeaky faucets, filling the tub with water and then splashing carefully into its depths.

  
He closes his eyes and tries not to imagine all of her skin wet and slick and shimmering with sweat and water droplets. Unfortunately, he is still wearing his reading glasses – glasses which had been designed to assist him with seeing things clearly and in Good Detail – and there are a great many details to be enjoyed within that mental picture.

  
Only after he hears the sound of rinsing does Tarrant manage to unlock his knees and force his shaky legs to stumble away from the door. He washes up with water from the bedside pitcher and makes a few small repairs to his trousers buttonholes (indeed, two of them  _ had _ been torn in his haste) and then wanders out onto the balcony for a breath or hundred of fresh air.

  
Tarrant is still trying to clear his head – still contemplating the advantages of carrying an additional handkerchief or two on his person at all times – when a touch on his elbow startles him.

  
“Alice!”

  
He turns and faces her without really meaning to. His apologies are not ordered and at the ready – they are scattered and spinning in useless circles. The sight of his wife in her nightdress and robe and slippers does naught to assist him with their collection.

  
And before he can think to search her face for hints of reproach or confusion or anger or whatever else he is sure he deserves for eavesdropping on her and touching himself, without having been invited to do any of those things...!

  
Alice steps up to him, wraps her arms around his waist and burrows against his chest.

  
“Alice?” he asks her still-damp hair. He tells himself he does not deserve any sort of reward for what he had just done – what he had allowed himself to do (that is worse than the madness, is it not? He had  _ knowingly _ consented to his own actions this time!) – but he wraps his arms around her shoulders and feels himself melt against her warmth.

  
“There is nothing to fear,” she whispers against his jacket lapel and he shivers. “I will show you.”

  
He leans his cheek against her head and closes his eyes. His arms reaffirm their hold on her and his fingers curl until the sleeves of her heavy robe are clutched in his grip.

  
“Everything will be fine.”

  
“But... the door, Alice. I almost...”

  
“No, you didn’t.”

  
“But I could have...”

  
“It wasn’t locked,” she informs him, shocks him, flabbergasts him. “It wasn’t locked and I’m glad you were there. You helped, you know. Just like I told you you would. We figured it out... together.”

  
Together. He likes the sound of that. He likes knowing that even separated from her, he is not without  _ some _ means of being with her. “I should not have eavesdropped.”

  
She snorts. “I have imagined just that scenario often enough that it would be very hypocritical of me to get upset over it now.”

  
“Alice? You...?”

  
And then she leans back, stretches her mouth up toward his and presses her lips against his protests. It is brief but it is warm and confident and when she leans back there are no accusations in her eyes. There is no anger. There is no argument over their decision to see this Courtship through to the end, to continue delaying the moment when their skin comes together.

  
“I am not afraid to be with you,” she informs him. “Nor am I afraid of waiting. It will be worth it, no matter how long you need.”

  
His brows rise at that. “And what if I request more time than we previously agreed?”

  
“Then it is yours.” 

  
“When... when the time comes,” he forces himself to say, “will you guide me, Alice?”

  
For a long moment, she simply studies his eyes, caresses his gaze with her own. “We’ll guide each other.”

  
He sighs out a deep breath and nods. Her words have calmed him, reassured him. Everything will be all right.

  
Gently, she snakes her arms out from around his torso and lifts her hands to his face. He blinks as she removes his reading glasses and then folds them carefully before tucking them in their customary pocket. “It’s my turn on the sofa tonight,” she murmurs.

  
Tarrant’s breath is caught somewhere between being a chuckle and a sob. He presses a kiss to her hair before he drops his arms from around her. “Then,” he declares softly, “it is also your turn to tuck me in.”

  
She smiles and he grins... and after a long moment, he retreats inside, gathers the nightclothes he’d retrieved from his room days before, and takes his turn in the bath. When he emerges, Alice tucks him into the bed and he tugs on a lock of her now-dry hair and whispers, “Thank you, Alice.”

  


“It was my pleasure,” she answers with a knowing smile that – for once – does not make him doubt himself. Perhaps he can do this. Perhaps he  _ can  _ make love to his wife without the madness overwhelming him. Of course, there are no guarantees and there is no way to know for sure and he will never forgive himself if he hurts her... but there is the smallest chance, he now admits, that this – he and Alice and happiness and  _ togetherness _ – is possible.  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From William Shakespears's Much Ado About Nothing, Act 2, Scene 3. Don Pedro: Why, what effects of passion shows she?


	34. A Walk in the Woods

Having tasted the dark, sensual delights of her own body, being with Tarrant, with the man she believes can make her feel such wonders again, and yet not permitting herself to  _ touch _ him more than casually is a torture she had not thought to expect. Her confidence steadies her even as her appetite for  _ More _ urges her to toss aside her good intentions and freely offered promises (and, oh, they had been so easy to offer with her body relaxed and warm from her pleasure and the hot bath). Walking beside him through the castle corridors fills her with both pride (he is the Right Man For Her, she  _ knows  _ it!) and temptation (there is a well-concealed nook just around the corner and she can easily imagine nudging him into it and then delving into his mouth for a taste of him).

  
She shivers and Tarrant asks if she would like his jacket.

  
Alice shakes her head, mute. Oh, dear Underland! If she were surrounded by his warm, earthy, male scent she would not be able to stop herself!

  
And yet, despite the sweet, breath-stealing torment of being in his presence, being away from him is even harder. Even if it is only for a few minutes as they both pass through their Rooms on their way to the cobblestoned hall that leads to their garden. The journey has grown shorter and more direct for Alice. Now she steps into a pleasant foyer, carefully inspects the bottoms of her slippers, hoists her basket of plant patterns, and shifts the satchel containing her muck-about boots and sun hat on her shoulder before entering her Room.

  
The first thing she notices – the most recent addition – is a large, four-poster bed. Yes, bed-activities have become part of her life now. Or rather, they will  _ become _ part of her life very soon. She has accepted that and is anticipating it. Her room, while dark in color is not so in tone and atmosphere. Windows – haphazardly placed – let in warm sunlight. The worn spots on the green velvet chair have healed since her last visit. Even the top hat sitting on the seat of the chair seems in better condition.

  
These changes might have commanded her attention and a full investigation last week, but now she wants nothing more than to see Tarrant. Even if she cannot  _ have _ him how she wishes, she can still have him with her and she will take that liberty as often as possible!

  
He waits for her in the hall. Alice skips across the stepping stones that had popped into existence a few days ago, hovering over the chasm that sets her door apart from the rest of the corridor. (At first she had been very leery of floating rocks – even helpfully-placed ones! – but after a bit of poking and prodding and a reminder from Tarrant ( _ “It _ ’ _ s only impossible if you believe it is!” _ ) and then a logical argument ( _ “Why else would stepping stone be there if they aren _ ’ _ t meant to be stepped  _ on?”)  Alice had chosen to put her faith in these rocks and use them.)

  
Tarrant reaches for her hand as she comes to a stop next to him.

  
“You said there was something you wanted to show me to-day?” she inquires, unable to hide or restrain her blatant curiosity.

  
He giggles. “Yes, my dear. There is something I would like you to see.” Despite the giggle, Tarrant ’ s shoulders hold an air of nervous energy. She squeezes his arm reassuringly, and he smiles down at her. 

  
“But not until after lunch,” he adds as she comforts him, causing Alice to gasp and take a step back. His grin grows wider.

  
“You ’ re teasing me!” Alice accuses.

  
He is unrepentant. “Indeed I am. But may I make a suggestion before we set off, my dear wife?”

  
“I am all ears,” she states.

  
“Now whom is teasing whom?” Tarrant answers back, snorting with mirth. “You are a great many more parts than just ears...”

  
With a steady stream of cheerful chatter, (in which he described  _ every _ part of her body, and just what he appreciates about it, with a decidedly naughty gleam in his eye; this does not help her Resolution to keep to her Promise at all, but she enjoys his list-making too much to ask him to stop—although he does pause briefly to offer the Suggestion he ’ d asked if she would take before, “Pack a comfortable pair of shoes, hmm?”) he directs Alice down the hall and through the Door to their Garden. 

  
Perhaps he wants to show her a new pattern for the Garden that he is particularly excited about? But no, if that were it, why would he make her wait until after lunch to see it? Maybe a new needle? Tarrant had complained just yesterday that his needle had been getting dull... but that would not be something that requires footwear! (At least, she doesn ’ t  _ think _ so.)

  
Despite racking her brain and asking what she ’d thought had been carefully probing questions, Tarrant keeps his silence on the matter of what he wishes to show her, and nudges their Thread of Conversation along other paths instead. Finally, Alice ’ s Curiosity will not be contained a single moment longer!

  
“Husband!” she fairly screeches in frustration, interrupting his current Topic (something about a device that Catches Dreams—something she would normally be very interested in!) by throwing down her current pattern (and just why had she selected the very ambitious Lady ’ s Mantle when her concentration is on anything and everything  _ except _ the evenness of her stitches?) and sloshing over to him in her muck-boots. 

  
“Yes, my wife?” Tarrant says, blinking and looking up at her, his large eyes portraying the epitome of innocence. If not for the devilish smirk lingering on the edge of his lips, she would think he actually  _ is _ innocent. But the smirk is there; she knows better.

  
“Will you please cease with this divagating and show me what it was you promised me to-day?”

  
He tilts his head to one side, considering. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he nods. “Aye, I suppose now  ’ tis as good as any a time for a wee bit of a break.” Holding out his hand for assistance, Alice obliges, hauling him to his feet with one good tug. “Shall we?” he queries. 

  
Waiting just long enough to gather up their picnic basket (Tarrant) and change footwear (Alice), they soon set off at a sedate pace. Alice enjoys the chance to hold onto his arm, but is positively  _ maddened _ when he still refuses to say anything about their destination. She asks a rapid volley of new questions, but Tarrant says little, and instead smiles wider and shakes his head.

  
Her questions dry up and trail off altogether when, instead of taking the path to the left towards their Heart Rooms, like she had expected, though, they go towards the right. 

  
“You ’ re not going to tell me until we get there, are you?”

  
“Patience, Alice,” he replies.

  
They walk in silence after that, with Tarrant gently nudging Alice to change their direction occasionally, until finally, he breaks the quiet with a murmured:

  
“I used to paint in these woods, you know.” 

 

Alice turns, looks around. They seem like ordinary woods to her; nothing about them sets them apart from any other stretch of land that she has seen in Underland. What would the Hatter find here that he had wanted to preserve on canvas? Is  _ this _ what he wanted to show her? It seems... rather anticlimatic.

 

“Really?” she asks. 

 

“Watch your step.” Tarrant guides her over a tree root and around a large, bulbous mushroom, his large feet in his battered shoes unerringly keeping their footing over the uneven ground. She’s glad that for this particular excursion her husband had not deemed muck-about boots to be a necessity; despite how much she speaks to them, they remain baneful footwear for her. 

 

Nodding to a clearing just ahead of them, he directs, “Just over here.” 

 

Indeed, when they arrive, an easel is still set up; a faded canvas with a half-complete painting rests on its slats, and the pots below that had once held various colors of pigment are full of murky water that only hints at the shades they ’ d been. Rain and Wind had not been kind to this piece of Tarrant’s past.

 

“What was it?” Alice gestures to the painting. “Or, what was it going to be?” 

 

“A house,” Tarrant says, softly. “My house.” He points across the river, and there, on the opposing cliff, the abandoned framework of a small cottage sits. “Or what would have been my house.” 

 

“Why did you…” The answer to the question Alice had been about to ask is suddenly very clear to her, and she trails off, unwilling to finish such a thoughtless query. Tarrant, though, simply smiles sadly at her and nods. 

 

“Stop?” he asks. “I simply… drifted away from this particular daydream, you see.” His green eyes travel away from her and back across the river, where they jump from the rotted split rail fence, to the overgrown shrubbery, and to the incomplete house frame. The pile of lumber beside the frame is gray, the boards bowed and curling. 

 

“As I mentioned before, I was very ambitious in my youth. Before I was so heavily involved in my trade, while I was still a restless apprentice, uncertain if my chosen profession would suit—” He pauses to smile at the look of surprise that must have splashed itself across her face. “Yes, even I, who am singularly devoted to my trade, had Doubts at first.” He clears his throat and continues, “I would come here and paint my house. As my confidence in both my talent and suitability with haberdashery grew, I started coming to this place less and less in favor of time spent in the workshop.” He clears his throat. “Eventually I stopped coming altogether. I ’ d thought, just before the war, to perhaps start again, but, well...As you can see, I never finished the painting, so the house was never complete. I suppose it could be argued that some part of me did not see the point having a grand house without having anyone to share it with.” He looks at her bashfully.

 

“Are you telling me that here, in Underland, an individual paints their house on canvas and then their actual house just… appears?” Alice asks. It’s possible that she’s misunderstood what he’s been saying, but she doesn’t think so. After all, if one can Sew a garden into existence, why wouldn ’ t one also be able to Paint a house?

 

“Well, not everyone,” Tarrant concedes. “Some do choose to employ carpenters, but my Clan has…  _ had _ … always been a bit more interested in relying on building our places using our own Imaginations rather than the imaginations of others.”

 

Alice ponders this in silence for a few moments. She reaches out, touches the faded canvas, squints, but still can not clearly See what Tarrant had planned for this space all those years ago. 

 

“What did you imagine this looking like? Your house?” Now that she is aware that the scene on the canvas depicts a house, she keeps trying to reassemble the rain-battered image in her mind, but she can not reconcile the simple frame across the river with the seemingly fully-fleshed building with a roof and doors hinted at on the canvas. The details of the house have been washed away by the same rain water that sits in the former pots of paint, but she can tell the two images—the one in Reality and the one on Canvas—do not match.

 

Still, she  _ can _ imagine Tarrant right here, (as her imagination always seems to enjoy cooperating when it comes to her husband) glasses on, (she’s not sure why the youthful Tarrant in her musing is wearing frames, but she accepts it and moves forward) squinting in concentration as he dabs bits of color onto the canvas. She licks her lips.

 

“Twas not going to be anything fancy,” he says. “A thatched roof, plaster walls… perhaps shutters on the windows… there was to be a garden round back, and a small pen for the chickens…” Tarrant glances over at her, shy. “Would you… like to go over there? To see it, I mean?” 

 

“How?” Alice asks. “It’s across the river, which looks too deep to cross.” 

 

“We’ll use the door.” 

 

Alice bites her tongue to keep from asking  _ What door  _ and places her hand in Tarrant’s. 

 

“Show me?” she asks. 

 


	35. Over the River

The door to reach the Other Side is hidden in a tangle of brown, twisted vines off to their left. The Hatter has a time of it convincing the vines to part, but finally, with bad grace, they do. He opens the door, steps through, and then gently tugs Alice after him. On the other side of the threshold is the leaning house frame, much closer to Alice than it had been before. 

 

“I don’t know that I shall ever be used to that,” Alice admits, watching the door swing shut behind them. “Doors opening to gardens and random outdoor locations, I mean.” 

 

“Alice, doors do not open to random locations,” Tarrant informs her, nose twitching in amusement. “They are set to open to very specific places. Having doors that opened to a random place would be dangerous.” 

 

“How silly of me,” Alice says, grinning up at him. “Thank you for correcting my thinking, Tarrant.” 

 

“Not correcting. Doors opening in random locations would, by the very nature of the word random, be a difficult thing for one to grow used to. Redirecting, perhaps, would be a more suitable word.” 

 

They step over another fallen log, apologize to the toadstools (they do this despite these toadstools being inanimate—sentient toadstools tend to be quite rude when one interrupts them, even inadvertently, and there are a great many in Marmoreal ’ s gardens. So many, in fact, that Alice has already developed the habit of apologizing whenever she sees one, even if she has not done anything to disturb them) and approach the shell. 

 

Alice counts out the number of posts that make up the foundation of the frame (sixteen) and the number of studs in the only wall that is still completely standing (forty-eight) and marvels once again at how different something is done here in Underland as opposed to Above. She turns, sees an outline in the ground in the approximate shape of a circle towards on the rear east side of the building, and walks to it. “What room was this to be?”

 

Tie perking, Tarrant follows her. “You wish for a tour?” 

 

“Yes, would you?” 

 

“Of course. I must warn you, though, some of the Ideas I had for a home in my youth were  _ very _ silly.”

 

With this promising statement, he starts by pointing to the low circle of stones at her feet. “This tower was to be the bathing chambers.” Tarrant walks over to the squared off section beside it, steps through, says, “The kitchen. I’d thought to put the stove right there.” An awkward step over a fallen beam, and then he is in the next space. “The larder, here. Can you imagine it, Alice, piled high with supplies, filled with happy ingredients and mischievous spices?” 

 

As he walks, his descriptions for each space get richer and more vivid, so that soon Alice feels as though she is walking in the house as he had envisioned it all those years ago. Ghostly walls rise around them, faintly shimmering in the sunlight. She exclaims over the decorations, compliments the furniture that is not there, and begins to make suggestions for what she would have added to the space, delighted when they mist into being right along with Tarrant’s. 

 

They walk up stairs that hadn’t even been hinted at before and gesticulate wildly while half-shouting enthusiastic ideas for a master bedroom. Both the size and placement of the bed are decided, along with the style of furnishings and the colors used on the walls. Even the rug hinted at by their feet gets their attention when a full and lively discourse on the advantages of different carpeting styles ensues.

 

Once they agree to visit that subject later (as they are both stubbornly insistent that their suggestion should triumph, and can not come to a compromise that pleases either of them fully), they exit that room and linger for a moment in the new upstairs hallway. The shadows of other rooms are hinted at, but neither one of them seems prepared to discuss those. By mutual silent decision, they tromp back down the wispy steps. 

 

Their tour ends where it had begun, at the outline of the round stone tower that would have been the bathing place. Alice puts a hand on his arm. “I wish I could have really seen it, Tarrant. I wish you could have gotten the house that you wished for.” And just like that, the ghost house dissipates, disappears as if they had never dreamed it, leaving behind only the battered frame of his former imaginings.

 

He comes back to reality with a twitch, the brightly manic gleam in his eyes and clothing altering, as he takes on an almost pensive air. (As pensive as someone in the grip of mania can be, at least.)

 

“If I had been more diligent, perhaps you would have been able to,” he says, mouth twisting in a rueful, self-depreciating smile. Then, taking a deep breath, he gets to the Root of the Issue:

 

“Alice... I was thinking... I was considering... that is...” Tarrant takes another deep breath, then says, “I wanted ye to see this because... I would like to paint a new house for ye. For  _ us _ . Not here, so far into what was my Place, but...”

 

“No.” 

 

The word is blurted out before she can consider how that one syllable without any supporting explanation would sound. Before her husband can think she is Refusing this extraordinary gift (a Place  _ and _ a House of their own? She had never thought much about it, had assumed he would want to stay in the castle and close to his work... but now that she  _ has  _ thought about it, she wants it,  _ so very much _ !) she hurries to add, “The house should be here. I ’ d  _ like _ it to be here. If you don ’ t mind.” 

 

“Nay, Alice,” he answers, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I d ’ nae mind at all.” 

 

The rest of the day is pleasantly spent on a picnic blanket eating the odd morsel of food (and Alice adores the way that picnic food here in Underland always stays fresh, no matter when you tuck in, and that it is at the proper temperature for consumption as well!) as Tarrant sketches out the ideas he and Alice had dreamed up during their tour of the old house frame. (He ’ d bit his lower lip as he ’ d pulled the sketch book out of the picnic basket, shrugged his shoulders, and said, apologetically, “I didn ’ t know what you ’ d say, Alice, but I ’ d hoped...” to explain its sketch pad ’ s presence.) Additional ideas are made; most are discarded, but the ones that are kept he draws in, until Tarrant finally declares that he believes he has enough to make a Good Start.

 

They pack up shortly after that, and Alice takes one last moment to look around the clearing where, very soon, she and Tarrant will have their own home. Surreptitiously, she closes her eyes and pinches her upper arm. When she opens them and the scene is the same, she smiles so widely that she knows, were Chess to see it, he ’ d be very jealous, indeed.

 

*~*~*~*

 

The next day, Alice watches as Tarrant strides off into the woods, his box of paint colors and jars tucked under his arm, a basket of eggs held in his other hand (“Eggs?” Alice had asked and he ’d answered, “Aye. I ’ll need the yolks to mix in with the pigment... you did wish for me to Paint our home... and not Dust it?”) , and several new paint brushes stuck proudly upright in the sash around his hat. Yes, he will begin Painting their house today while Alice  _ tries _ to finish her half of the garden. She glances around at the plants that have appeared since she’d begun her work here. Little by little, the rough velvet of their fabric leaves molts and balds, revealing a living, breathing, leafy plant beneath. She had once admired millinery flowers Above for their lifelike detail and handcrafted perfection... but never would she have thought it would be possible to  _ grow _ them from mere stitchery and conversation!

  
She gently tickles the leaves of the buttercups... perhaps in a few days they will be alive enough to bud and then bloom. She counts the four o’clocks and the harebell. A few days ago she had even dared to Sew a few White Queen Flowers near a trellis Tarrant had fashioned for her at her request. But today... Today, now that she is alone with only the not-quite-living plants to talk to Alice has a very specific project in mind.

  
As soon as she is sure that she is alone, she digs through her basket of patterns and pulls out one in particular. As she applies it to the garden soil and begins stitching (yes, she  _ has  _ gotten better at this since she’d started!), Alice thinks of Lady Philomena’s description of the Courting gardens, of the vegetable or fruit she might infuse with her True Feelings and invite Tarrant to taste. Alice smiles. She knows  _ precisely _ what plant this garden needs. She only hopes that she will succeed, that her feelings are strong enough –  _ Enough _ – to reward him for his patience...

  
Alice stitches as quickly as she can and then, finishing that pattern, reaches into the basket for another. This one she applies near and around the first, hoping to hide its uniqueness from view until she is ready to reveal it... and also her intentions to Tarrant.

  
“ _ Blast _ !” she curses, as the thread on the needle snaps. She ’ d not been speaking aloud enough; her thoughts had wandered off into silence. Her exclamation is enough to have the Thread reform so that she is able to rethread the needle, though, and she reminds herself to Speak!

  
“Yes, things are coming along very nicely. Soon we will have a fully-grown garden and freshly-painted house...” Alice knows she still has to decide what to do with her time and energies. (If she is not going to be a mother or a courtier, then there ought to be something she can do with her days while Tarrant is working at his trade!)

  
“And soon – in only seven more days! – he’ll have to get back to it!” she fusses. Yes, their Courtship is nearly over! She gasps at the thought. “Just one more week,” she murmurs, darkening the thread. It is hard to believe that in one more week, the time she had promised him will be over... as will his approved holidays from his work.

  
Real life is waiting for them to return to it. She shakes her head, sighing. When she is here – in Their Place – Alice forgets (well, no, she doesn’t  _ forget _ ... perhaps,  _ allows herself to ignore the fact _ would be more accurate) that there is anyone or anything else in existence in the world.

  
Of course there  _ are  _ other people in Underland besides herself and Tarrant. And this fact revisits her on Tuesday morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo Davinci (among other painters) mixed powdered pigment with egg yolks and a bit of water to produce paints. The Last Supper is actually painted with a concoction similar to this. (Or so I heard on The History Channel.)


	36. The Elixir

“You wished to see me, your Majesty?” Alice leans over the threshold and cranes her neck, finally spotting the Queen seated at her elegant writing desk sorting through what appears to be paper cutouts of the members of the White Court.

  
“Ah, Alice!” the Queen sighs. She immediately abandons her project (yet is very careful to lay the paper doll down gently on the white lacquered desk top) and turns toward the open doorway. “Do come in! Although,” she muses with a warm smile as she stands and floats across the room, “I believe it was  _ you _ who wished to see  _ me _ . Last Friday?” she prompts gently.

  
“Oh! Oh, yes. I did.” Alice regards the monarch for a long moment. True, she had intended to ask the White Queen about a very specific and private topic... a topic which Alice is confident that she has resolved to her satisfaction. (True, she has only managed to successfully achieve her pleasure once and it had not been a  _ completely _ solo effort, but she  _ had _ managed it. After such satisfying success, she had elected not to dilute her victory with a potentially less-than-satisfactory encore. (She had also taken into account the air of calm expectation between herself and her husband; Alice had been unwilling to jostle that with more too-long bath times and potential setbacks.) She is still not an expert on the nature of her own pleasure, but she feels she knows Enough to guide Tarrant... should he require her instructions... although she  _ doubts  _ they will be necessary.)

  
“What did you wish to discuss with me, my Champion?” the Queen inquires, gesturing Alice to a very stately armchair.

  
She takes a seat and considers the opportunity she has now. She no longer  _ requires _ the advice she had originally dared to petition the Queen for... But that does not mean that there are not  _ other  _ topics Alice would like to approach. First and foremost, however, a warning might be in order.

  
She clears her throat. “The topic is very... personal. Private. And perhaps considered a very delicate manner here. It certainly is considered so Above.”

  
“And what might that be?” the Queen encourages, gesturing toward the glass of cherry blossom water on the table beside Alice’s right elbow.

  
Alice indulges in a sip, nodding her thanks to the Queen for the thoughtfully provided refreshment, and says slowly, “Well, as you know, Tarrant and I are married... and, Above, what would be expected of us would be... well, to start a family. Children.”

  
“Would it? How interesting!”

  
Alice examines the Queen’s expression. Although Alice trusts the information that Tarrant had given her and Philomena has proven herself to be a loyal and generous friend thus far, Alice has not forgotten how the Queen had maneuvered her and Tarrant into Tying The Knot. Would she go so far as to provide false or misleading information so that Alice and Tarrant will produce children as soon as possible? It is a very Dark thought, indeed, to be having about the White Queen.

  
In this instance, however, the Queen seems genuinely intrigued by the notion of marriage facilitating the rearing of children. Sensing no counterfeit displays, Alice continues, “And I am beginning to suspect that the way children are... produced here in Underland is very... different from what is done Above.”

  
The Queen tilts her head to the side and blinks. Her dark brows draw together in puzzlement. “Above, the people there do not join with their lover and Wish Upon A Star for a child?”

  
Alice lets out the breath she’d been holding. Dear bumbling borogoves but she is utterly  _ relieved _ that the information Tarrant had given her had just been corroborated. She is not sure what she would have done if the Queen had said... well, something other than that!

  
Alice replies, “They do not. Parents sometimes tell young children that babies are made in such a manner but it is not true. The parents are merely hoping to satisfy their child’s curiosity until a time when they feel the child can fully understand the... process.”

  
“Ah. Of course parents here rely on similar White Lies to placate their children regarding that very issue! But, if I might ask, what  _ is  _ the process by which children are brought into being Above?”

  
Taking a fortifying breath, Alice forces the words out in as neutral a tone as possible: “Intimacy... a joining between a man and a woman.”

  
Mirana’s brows arc rather  _ expressively _ at that. “I... beg your pardon, Alice, but when you say a  _ joining _ you mean...?”

  
“In the marriage bed,” Alice hears herself supply clinically. “Although marriage is not a necessary aspect of the process itself, which is strictly biological in nature, but Above Society does not forgive... Well, a man and a woman are  _ expected  _ to marry before they engage in intimate activities.”

  
“Of the sort that occur in a bed?” the Queen confirms and Alice suddenly experiences a moment of panic: suppose intimacy is not  _ done _ in a bed here? Oh, botheration! However is she going to make sure both she and the Queen are discussing the same  _ thing? _

  
“Bugger,” Alice swears and the Queen snorts out a brief, helpless giggle.

  
“Ahem, yes, quite. But let us refer to the activity in question as... intercourse.”

  
Alice heaves a relieved sigh and nods. “Yes. Let’s.”

  
The Queen pauses, seems to carefully consider her next comment and then, in an apologetic tone, inquires, “Have you and your husband engaged in these activities yet? Beniford has not spoken to me of this, but that could simply mean you did not feel... comfortable in the castle. I am sorry for the indelicate question, but...”

  
“No, no,” Alice assures her. “It is directly related to what I wish to discuss. You see, Tarrant and I have decided to finish our Courtship, er...  _ completely _ before we... Um, that is...”

  
“Have intercourse.”

  
“Ah, yes. However,” Alice soldiers on, hoping her face isn’t as bright red as it unfortunately feels. Why are these sorts of things so much harder to discuss with the Queen than they had been with Philomena? True, Alice hadn’t mentioned children to her new friend, but the topics are very closely related! “I’m concerned that, with me being from Above, my body will not... obey the ways of Underland and... well, were we to become intimate I might... conceive. A child.”

  
The Queen leans back in her chair and nods. “Now I understand what has been worrying you, Alice. And as I am unaware of other cases similar to yours and Tarrant’s... I would have to err on the side of caution and say that it is very  _ likely _ that you would conceive a child in the manner your body would normally do so. Coming to Underland would not have changed your biology, dear Alice,” the White Queen gently explains.

_   
Oh, bugger _ , Alice thinks, and then winces. Yes:  _ bugger – _ that’s the essence of the problem exactly! “Is there nothing we can do to... successfully manage the... conception of children while being able to...?”

  
The Queen glances down at her knees before returning her gaze to Alice’s. “There is,” she replies, her beautiful face the manifestation of compassion and sympathy, “but I do not think you will like it.”

  
“Tell me what it is. Please, your Majesty.”

  
The Queen sighs. “Alice... these last few days, I have been considering how very much not only I but all of Underland – including Tarrant – would like to keep you with us... permanently.”

  
“Permanently, your Majesty? But... I thought I could stay as long as I liked?”  _ Is  _ there a catch after all? she frets.  _ Is _ Tarrant justified in fearing she will return to Above one day?

  
“Of course you may stay! The issue is a bit more... nuanced than that.” The Queen lifts her hands, bracing her elbows on the padded arms of her chair, and taps her fingertips together in a somewhat nervous and yet contemplative gesture. “It occurred to me that, as you are a Child of Above, you would not be able to enjoy the... benefits of being a true citizen of Underland.”

  
“Those being?”

  
“Irrelevant at the present time,” the Queen interjects with a steely gleam in her eye. “Suffice it to say that my research has revealed a formula – an ancient recipe – which, when properly brewed and consumed, will induct you into Underland as one of its Children. Your mind, heart, and body will be in harmony with this world. Now, I believe your mind and heart have always belonged here, but your body...”

  
“Yes,” Alice agrees, understanding. “So, there  _ is _ a way to make me... like other women here... biologically speaking?”

  
“Of course there is, Alice. There is always a way. Unfortunately, there is always a price.”

  
“What is it?” she rasps around a very clumsy tongue and through a very dry mouth.

  
“Above. You will never be able to return home to your family Above. You  _ will _ be able to spend a  _ minute _ time up there,” the queen admits with visible reluctance, “but it will be dangerous, for if you do not return to Underland before the minute hand makes one full revolution, your life... will be at great risk, Alice.”

  
“An hour, you mean?” Alice confirms. She thinks of the White Rabbit – Sir Nivens McTwisp – and his seemingly unhealthy and obsessive fear of tardiness while Above... Suddenly, his unending state of panic while visiting Above makes a great deal of sense. Through that dawning horror (at the risks he had taken) and wonder (at the bravery of the White Rabbit), she summarizes, “A full revolution of the minute hand... I would only be able to visit my mother and sister for an hour?”

  
“At a time, yes.”

  
“I... see.” Alice considers that bargain: her family Above – whom she had hoped to perhaps contact somehow one day, to make amends and reassure them of her safety – for a true Underlandian marriage with Tarrant. A marriage that is not overshadowed with the possibility of... Well, she is not sure if she wants –  _ will _ want – to be a mother one day. She would certainly prefer to discover what it means to be a wife before she commits to so... irreversible a venture as children!

  
She weighs the consequences carefully, and then turns back to the Queen who is patiently waiting for her response. “What else would happen? How would I be different as a citizen of Underland?”

  
The Queen takes a deep breath and then chuckles softly, “Of course you would ask that question. You would not be Our Alice if you did not. But consider carefully, what it is you are asking.”

  
Alice frowns.

  
“What if I told you,” the monarch muses aloud, “that being Underlandian would give you the ability to change your appearance at will. You might wish for longer hair, paler skin...”

  
Alice jerks backward in her chair, shocked and affronted by the idea, but perversely intrigued. “Would it?”

  
The Queen’s lips curve into a rather sly smile. “Would it matter if that  _ were _ true? Would that make an impact on you decision? And, most importantly, Alice, would you  _ want  _ it to influence your choice?”

  
“Oh...” Yes, she sees the Queen’s point now.

  
“Precisely,” she agrees. “Now, we are  _ different _ from the people Above. I am sure you have sensed this. Please think very carefully on how much information you would  _ like  _ to have and weigh it against the information you  _ need _ to know in order to make a decision you will not regret.”

  
Those words follow Alice as she meanders back to the suite she shares with Tarrant. It is an unsettling choice, layered and complicated:

  
Should she choose to become Underlandian for the sake of her and Tarrant’s marriage? Their future? Should she make this decision blindly, considering only the merits of a life with him and her own desire for him?

  
Or should she consider  _ all  _ points? Will she wonder – years later – if Tarrant would have been enough for her to make that choice? Or will she wonder if some other aspect of being Underlandian had swayed her? Will she come to regret making the decision fully informed?

  
Mechanically, she mounts the last flight of stairs and turns down the hall. When she opens the door to their suite, Tarrant looks up from what appears to be a rather heated discussion with his shoes. “How was your chat with the queen, my dear?”

  
The door closes behind Alice but she doesn’t move away from it. Tarrant’s beatific smile of welcome dims. “Alice?”

  
The sound of apprehension, uncertainty and fear in his voice jar her back to herself. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. It was...” What exactly  _ had  _ it been?

  
As she flounders for an adequate description, Tarrant stands and strides toward her. He reaches out to her, hesitates briefly, and Alice takes a step toward him so that his hands – which had clearly wanted to grasp her arms – now do so easily. She returns the favor, clutching his jacket sleeves in her fingers.

  
“Tarrant,” she begins, intending to tell him about the potion, the possibility, the potential which she herself does not fully understand. But something else the Queen had said interjects, intersects with those thoughts and Alice hears herself say, “Are you still afraid I’ll leave Underland one day? You never told me why you didn’t believe me when I said I’d come back to stay.”


	37. Return to Underland

“What... what did the Queen tell you?” Tarrant Hightopp has never looked so afraid, not to Alice’s memory.

  
“Please, answer my question.”

  
He closes his eyes, jerks his chin away although he does not try to shake off her hands or release her arms from his grip. Alice studies him – as she has been studying him over the last more-than-a-week – and realizes that, while he is not explicitly denying her the information she has requested, he will need a bit more persuasive effort on her part to relent. 

  
“Tarrant... you are my husband. I do not want this issue to come between us.”

  
He glances back at her, his brows even more unruly in his surprise. “It already has,” he argues. “It always has been. You’ve managed to skip over it often enough we can nearly pretend it isn’t there at all.”

  
“ _ What _ isn’t there?”

  
“The rabbit hole,” he answers with visible reluctance.

  
Alice frowns. “But I wouldn’t know how to use it from this side! How would I even enter the Room of Doors? And then I’d have to bash my way through the ceiling—er, floor, wouldn’t I?”

  
Tarrant shakes his head vigorously. “No, Alice. Not  _ that  _ rabbit hole. That one only leads one way – from Above to Under. The rabbit hole I am referring to is the one that you have always used to return to your true home—”

  
“Underland is my true home,” she rebuts.

  
“If that were true, the rabbit hole would no longer exist, but it does, Alice.”

  
“Well, then, where is it? I’ve no idea of what you are referring to!”

  
“Yes, you do. Think about it carefully, Alice. How did you return home when you were a wee little lass? And the blood of the Jabberwock... what path did you choose for it to take?”

  
“Path? I... The rabbit hole...”

  
“Yes. Precisely, Alice.”

  
She sighs and resists the urge to shake some sense out of him. “Precisely what, Tarrant?”

  
“The way to Above,” he confesses, looking as if he would rather cut out his own tongue than tell her, “the way you will take when you decide to return...” She very nearly cuts him off here; Why is he speaking as if her departure is guaranteed? “... exists between us. Between our Hearts.”

  
Alice hears the distinction in his tone and knows he is speaking of their Rooms. She shakes her head. “There is nothing between our Hearts! There’s only the corridor to our garden!”

  
“That is not true, Alice. What else is there?”

  
“Your portcullis, moat, and bridge,” she can’t stop herself from accusing.

  
He merely nods, accepting this. “And what else?”

  
“And... and...” Her breath hitches. “The... ravine outside my Door...”

  
“The  _ rabbit _ _ hole _ outside your door,” he softly corrects.

  
She shakes her head, denying the possibility.

  
“Aye, Alice,” he insists, pulling himself closer to her, as if she is about to throw herself into its depths. “Ye’ve ne’er looked closely inteh its depths... I have. An’ I ken a rabbit hole when I see one.”

  
Alice stares into his eyes. The left one is a muted green and the right... yes, the ring of red is a bit more predominant than usual. “I have no intention of ever using that... path again,” she hurries to reassure him.

  
He arcs a brow. “Why would it be there at all if it weren’t there to be used?”

  
Alice answers the challenge unthinkingly, “Perhaps because, one day, after I’ve forgiven them, I shall need some way of telling my mother and sister that I’m all right!”

  
Tarrant’s increasing grip on her arms loosens. “Forgiven them?” His gaze, half mad and half brilliant, examines her. “Alice... why did you come back to Underland when you did?”

  
“I promised you I would,” she temporizes.

  
Tarrant notices the evasion. “But why  _ that  _ moment?”

  
Sighing, Alice realizes that he is not going to let the subject go this time. And denying him will only widen the gulf – the  _ rabbit hole _ – between them. At the thought of returning to her Room and finding an even larger chasm between her Door and his, Alice concedes. She does not wish to push him away. She gestures to the armchairs in the sitting area and Tarrant drops his hands from her arms. She spends the half dozen steps trying to calm herself, to center herself. The topic of her departure still upsets her despite the nearly-two months that have passed since the incident.

  
And, as the word  _ incident _ crosses her mind, she is reminded of the Pear Incident. Despite the unpleasantness of their imminent conversation, Alice smiles. Perhaps not all incidents are bad. Perhaps something good  _ can  _ come from them. If she wills it to be so.

  
“You wish to know why I came back when I did?” she muses, not really asking, not really confirming, merely introducing the issue, merely agreeing to entertain it.

  
Taking the seat opposite hers, Tarrant nods. So she obliges him:

  
“Marriage.” Oh, the irony. She would have laughed if it would not have been so painful – for both of them – to hear.

  
“I... beg your pardon?”

  
“Do you remember the sea voyage I mentioned taking?”

  
“Of course I do. I remember  _ everything _ we have discussed, Alice.”

  
“Everything?” she echoes. “That ’s quite a lot.”

  
“I’m quite proud of my collection.”

  
She chuckles and feels herself relax a bit into the embrace of the chair. “That sea voyage was my greatest achievement.  _ A _ great achievement for anyone. Especially for a woman. Women Above do not sail the seas; they do not apprentice with trading companies; they do not get involved with business; they do not venture to distant lands without a chaperone.” She sighs. “Not without consequences.”

  
“Everything comes with a price,” he agrees. “Although I cannot fathom why those things would cost you your home and family.”

  
“I’m getting to that.” She folds her hands in her lap and continues, “At one particular port, we took on a passenger. A man with the company. An  _ unmarried _ man.”

  
Tarrant twitches in his seat, obviously distressed by the implications at which she is hinting. Alice holds up a hand to stop whatever thought that is brewing from bubbling over. “You wanted to hear this. Have you changed your mind, husband?”

  
“No, my wife,” he answers on a lengthy exhale. “Please, continue.”

  
“This man... He was amiable, polite, business savvy. I learned a great deal from him... about  _ trading _ ,” she deliberately qualifies.

  
Tarrant scowls. “Why point that out, Alice?”

  
“Because many people believed I learned quite a bit more from him than I, an unwed and unchaperoned woman, should have.” By the sudden twitch of his brows and the sideways jerk of his chin, Alice knows he has experienced a thought which he does not care for at all. She waits for him to ask, just as all the others had asked. Asked... and not listened to one word of her answer.

  
“Say it,” she invites him when he has been silent for far too long.

  
“Say what?”

  
“Ask if you must.”

  
“I do not have to,” he informs her, his left eye narrowing and creating an expression of Determination in his features. “I know you were not intimate with that man. I  _ know _ , Alice, that you were not... indiscreet with him. If you had been, you never would have been so curious about...”

  
No, she never would have been so keen and impatient to be indiscreet with Tarrant if her curiosity had been satisfied previous to that. Yes, he knows her very well.

  
She lets out a breath and feels shame rush to fill the spaces left by her released breath. “I’m sorry. That was unfair. It’s just... my mother and sister didn’t believe me when I denied it. They... The gossip started the moment we disembarked and...” Alice shakes her head.

  
“I ignored the gossip. As usual. My mother... although she has not always agreed with my decisions, she had always let make up my own mind. That is rare where I come from; women are sheltered, guided, protected... You see, women in London cannot own land or manage their own finances or anything like that. A woman’s wealth is held in trust by her father or husband or brother or cousin, even. My mother is... not young and my father passed some time ago. My brother-in-law is a scoundrel. Were my sister any less of a woman...” Alice stops, shakes her head, takes a deep breath and continues, “Above, a woman  _ needs  _ a man to look after her because she is not permitted to do so herself. My mother had the benefit of being a widow but I... And then, when the gossip started making its way around town, my mother – worried for me and my future as she was – did not... did not...”

  
Alice realizes she could expound on the excuses and rationale for  _ hours.  _ But they are not particularly pertinent to the issue at hand. She wrestles the betrayal aside as best she can and reports, “I found out about the wedding two days before it was to happen. My maid told me, bless her soul... I miss her...” She gives herself a light shake and returns her attention to the tale, “I suppose he would have been a good husband, that man from the company, I mean. He was kind, reliable, successful. But not for me. I had to leave, you see. Marry, one day accept my wastrel of a brother-in-law as my provider, or... leave. Those were my choices.

  
“My mother’s support had always given me the means to live my own life – make my own path – but now, without it, what would I do? Where could I go to be  _ me _ ? Just Alice? I left.”

  
She cannot bear to look into his eyes, to see his disappointment. “I’m so sorry, Tarrant. I didn’t  _ return _ to Underland. I  _ ran away _ from London.”


	38. No Regrets

For a long moment, there is silence. Alice considers leaving the suite... but where would she go? She does not wish to see anyone, explain the tears on her cheeks, or give anyone the impression that her husband is to blame for them. He is not. Alice had done this to herself. She had never wanted to tell him, had never wanted to think of it again, had simply wanted it to be in the past, forgotten. Of course it hadn’t been... which is why she has not tried to contact her family. She had only left a quick note for her farewell. She knows it hadn’t been enough, but in the wake of their high-handed actions, she had not been capable of anything more generous.

  
The sound of  cloth sliding against upholstery reaches her ears a moment before her husband’s hands settle on her trembling knees. She is shaking, she realizes, struggling to keep herself under control.

  
“Alice, look at me, please...”

  
She turns her face toward him but stares at his ascot – that damn ascot that he insists on wearing with his unnecessary waistcoat and obstacle of a jacket – rather than meeting his eyes.

  
“Alice, I love ye... Nothin’ ye’ve said has changed that.”

  
She grits her teeth against the wave of emotion his promise calls forth. Two tears escape in silence and plummet toward her jaw.

  
“I d’nae care about the rumors. I d’nae care about yer reason fer returnin’... no’ any launger... But, Alice, I am sae sorry fer th’ rest.”

  
Unable to speak, she nods.

  
“An’ I am sae sorry fer all tha’ I’ve done ta ye.”

  
Her gaze flies up to his. “What? No.  _ No, _ ” she insists seeing the depth of his pain in his eyes. “What have you to be sorry for?” 

  
He gapes at her. “Alice... look at us. Here we are, not two months after your return,  _ married. _ Wed. In the very state you considered so abhorrent Above! I... The Courtship... the Crown... I’m sae sorry, Alice.”

  
She lifts her hands to his face and captures his cheeks in her palms. “I  _ agreed _ to our Courtship, Tarrant. I  _ agreed _ to share my Heart with you through the Crown.  _ I  _ was the one who  _ forced _ you to Tie The Knot!”

  
“Alice! How can ye say that?!”

  
“I know you wanted this...  _ me. _ But I also know you wish it hadn’t happened  _ that way _ !” She caresses his cheekbones with her thumbs. “You said you wanted to ask me... propose properly. And you weren’t given the chance. I am so sorry for that.”

  
“Alice...” he muses, his gaze searching her expression.

  
“Yes?”

  
He lifts his hands, presses them to hers for a moment before gently removing them and encasing them in his forever-battered fingers. “Will you take me as your husband? For all the time we are given? Through all the trials that await us? Through all the joys we will be blessed with? Until the end of Underland?”

  
Alice marvels at the man kneeling at her feet. She feels a wondering smile stretch her lips at this man’s bravery and unique solution to dissolving their regrets. He is right, she suddenly understands, there is no reason not to take those lost opportunities now. There is no reason to allow regret to linger. They make the path. Whatever may have come before, they will always make the path.

  
“Tarrant Hightopp,” she whispers, leaning toward him. “I do.”

  
She presses her lips to his, invites him to taste her with a nudge from her lips and a tightening grip on his fingers. He does, sighing as his lips part and his tongue ventures between hers. It is not a passionate kiss. It is delicate and sensual and it makes her blood heat and her core throb with the delicious promise it contains. She Wants him... but she does not slant her mouth hungrily over his. She does not slide from her chair and onto the floor with him. This is  _ his  _ moment,  _ their _ moment. They have time for the rest... when he is ready.

  
He gently breaks their kiss. She is reluctant to agree and her mouth follows his for a brief moment before she reminds herself to stop. She opens her eyes and looks into his luminous expression. She very nearly tells him, explains that her feelings for him have grown into something that must be love...

  
“Do  _ you _ have any regrets, Alice?” he whispers. And she grins. Yes, Tarrant will address her regrets just as he had addressed his.

  
She wants to tell him she regrets not loving him sooner. She wants to tell him that she  _ does _ love him now. She wants the love she feels for him to be Enough... But she remembers the blinding brilliance of his Love for her and doubts she will ever be able to match that.

  
Alice lifts a hand from his and slides it into his frizzy, wild, orange hair, presses her palm against the nape of his neck, and whispers, “I should have told you... at our morning tea... No, earlier. I should have told you at the fountain where we met before setting out into the garden...”

  
He is holding his breath; she can see it.

  
“Tarrant, you are the right man for me.”

  
This time he leans forward, his mouth hungrily seeking hers. The angle is just as awkward as it had been before, which is just as well. The kiss is brief, filled with heat and want and panting breaths and wet lips and it very well might have lead to More had they both been more comfortable. The strain in Alice’s back as she leans toward him (and perhaps the stiffness in his knees where they press into the too-thin rug) bring them back to their senses.

  
“Thank you, my wife. For sharing that observation.”

  
“Fact,” she gently corrects him. “It’s a fact, husband.”

  
His smile is so luminous, she feels herself lit with his light from the inside out. Her heart swells and her breath catches. Oh, how she loves him!

  
And she will show him.

Alice stands and assists Tarrant in getting to his feet. He doesn’t even wince despite the pain his knees must be causing him. He folds her into his arms, presses kiss after kiss to her hair, and rocks them both gently back and forth. She closes her eyes and returns the embrace with all her strength.

  
She cannot – will not – ever let him go. Nor will she allow anything to come between them. She wants him. She wants a life with him, here, in Underland.

  
She will ask the Queen to tell her all of the ways she will be different, but they will not matter. Not in the end. She will make peace with those differences; she will expect them and accept them. But she  _ will _ drink the Elixir.

_   
She _ will not change.  _ Who she is _ will be no different. No, the difference will be in who she  _ becomes _ . In addition to being the daughter of Charles Kingsleigh, she will also be  _ Tarrant _ _ ’s Alice _ .

  
She’s ready to give him that.

  
And so it shall be.


	39. The Rabbit Hole

“Have you discussed this with Tarrant?”

  
Alice sits across from the White Queen, hands clasped in her lap. She ’ d gotten her answers as to what changes to expect, and there is nothing—as she had known there would not be!—that is odd or frightening enough to sway her decision.

  
“I know what he would say.”

  
“He would not wish you to do this, Alice. Your family... He knows how painful it is to lose one ’s family.” As does Mirana, and yet she still must wish for her Champion to drink the Elixir (for why else then would she have brewed it?) very much, doesn’t she? Alice does not point this particular fact out. Estrangement from one’s family is not something that either woman takes lightly. 

  
“I’m not losing... I’m gaining.” Despite Alice’s muchy insistence, Mirana wears a look of concern, elegantly expressed in the tilt of her dark brows.

  
“Alice, think of what he would want  _ for _ you.”

  
“I am. And I am thinking of what he needs. What I need. He needs me to stay. And I need to belong.”

  
Still, the Queen hesitates. “Are you  _ sure _ , Alice?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Then consider this a wedding present, if you will.” Touching the side of her face with the hand not clutching the potion, Mirana smiles gently. “I only want for your happiness.”

  
And then the White Queen relinquishes the potion to her (the potion she had brewed days and days ago behind Closed Doors) and Alice pauses for a brief introduction. 

  
“Hello,” she murmurs. “My name is Alice. I ’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  
The clear liquid does not reply. Not with words, at any rate. For a Reply, she will have to drink it, wait, and see.

  
She does.  Alice presses the mouth of the glass dram jar against her lips, and – hoping the taste is not  _ too _ foul – drinks. To her surprise, the Eternally Under Elixir tastes like... like...  _ him. _ Like Tarrant and it smells like him (she realizes this as she exhales and her breath passes over the liquid lingering on her tongue and delivers it to her nose) and she has no regrets. Within her chest, she feels something shift, pull closed, heal. The door to the past is shut, she imagines. Now, there is only the future.

  
“I recommend that you go to bed early,” the Queen advises her. “You may have strange dreams as Underland welcomes you, but they should not be frightful. Only vibrant, possibly vivid, with the slight probability of vigorous enthusiasm.”

  
And the Queen is right. Alice wakes in the middle of the night, gasping on a laugh and feeling as if her entire being is in the process of being Tickled Pink. After what seems like a very long minute, the sensation subsides to a pleasantly warm feeling of satisfaction: Underland is pleased with her.

  
She smiles. She rolls carefully onto her side on the sofa, turning toward the bed... and grins at the sight of her husband ’s face, relaxed in slumber. She studies the way his eyelashes fan out against his stained skin, above his cheekbones. She examines the slightly slack curve of his lips which still manage to look as if they are smiling. Her husband does not sleep vigorously (like he futterwhackens) or furiously (like he sews). He sleeps... peacefully. And she would not interrupt that state of grace for anything.

  
Soon, she will share her decision with him. Soon, she will explain and hope he will both forgive her and allow himself to rejoice over her new citizenship.

  
Soon. But not tonight. Tonight she lets him sleep and, after watching him for a moment longer, closes her eyes once more and joins him.

  


*~*~*~*

 

Alice is already waiting in the doorway of her Heart Room when Tarrant’s orange curls finally show themselves under his portcullis. In her haste, she had forgotten to remove her shoes (today she is wearing a pair of soft-soled leather loafers, though, and not her new muck-about boots, so hopefully her Heart will not object  _ too _ much). She considers removing them and tucking them out of sight behind the shrubbery that are now growing by her Door, (so as to prevent a scolding urging her to take better care of her Heart from her husband) but is afraid she will miss the Moment if she does.

 

He does not disappoint her expectations. While normally she credits Tarrant with being quite observant, today it seems he was not as keen as usual, for he gets to the middle of the bridge across his moat before he notices. But when he does…

 

There it is! The Moment she has been so eager to see! She grins as Tarrant stumbles to a stop.

 

He gapes. Stares. 

 

For the ravine, the rabbit hole that he has assisted her in hopping over each day since they had first journeyed to the Bottom of their Hearts, is gone. Closed up, as if it never existed. In fact, a new-and-improved entryway rests where it used to be. Fine white bricks, so tightly packed together that no hint of dirt or gravel peaks between them, topped with tall, cheerful sculptures of rampant gryphons carved from white marble and large, low planter urns of the same material filled with non-sentient ivy and shrubbery now surround Alice’s door instead. 

 

Crossing the rest of the simple bridge, he cautiously taps the toe of his booted foot on the bricks, as if testing their solidity. Apparently they meet with his approval, as he takes one step forward, then another. Alice decides he can be forgiven for this show of doubt—just yesterday, a crater existed where he now stands.

 

“Alice?” he asks, sounding frightened and hopeful and wary and so very… _ Hopeful _ . (The amount of Hope in his expression she believes warrants taking note of twice, the second time with the proper Capitalization.) The expression on his face is exquisitely tentative... tentative enough to nearly Break her Heart. She hears the Door propped open behind her groan under the strain of staying whole. 

 

She lifts a foot to take a step towards him, sees his shoulders bunch and tense under the fabric of his jacket, practically  _ feels _ him prepare himself to leap across the chasm-that-is-no-longer, to tackle her to the floor of her Heart Room to prevent her from tumbling Up into London. Alice places her foot firmly on the now-solid ground, sees the tension leave him, hears the relieved breath  _ whoosh _ out of his lungs. Then he says again, this time in awe, “Alice…”


	40. Distress and Decision

“As you know, I’ve been speaking to Mirana,” Alice informs him, drawing closer, “and she offered me a gift. One that I believe will be the solution to multiple problems.” 

 

“The Queen is terribly efficient that way,” Tarrant agrees. They are close enough to touch, now, and so she does so. Alice reaches out for one of his hands, and he allows her to find it, to use it to draw him another pace closer to her. “What sort of gift has she given you?” Various thoughts parade across his face, lighting his features with a mish-mash of colors and shadow. “Is it a late wedding present?” 

 

“That’s exactly what she called it, actually.” The memory of Mirana’s warm smile and her touch upon Alice’s cheek rises, and Alice will tell him all about What Happened, and What Led to This, but for now she focuses on Them. He and She. Alice and Tarrant. 

 

“Although it was mostly for me, I hope I am not over-flattering myself to think it was something that could benefit us both. That is, if you haven’t suddenly changed your mind. About having me for your wife.” She doesn’t think he has, though. No, Hatters—especially Hatters named Tarrant—seem to be very Sure once they have Set Their Mind—or in this case, their Heart—on something. For that, Alice is extremely grateful.

 

“I’m not going to pretend I know your meaning, my dear wife.” He gives her a Look that clearly says that he has no intention of changing his mind about the current state of their marriage. “This suspense is causing all manner of things to outgrabe disagreeably in my stomach. What are you referring to?” His brows flutter and twitch, inspiring Alice to lay one of her hands on one of his cheeks. 

 

“Now you know how I felt the other morning when you refused to tell me what it was you wanted to show me!” 

 

Alice had meant the words to be teasing, but a look of utter distress twists his features.

 

“I’m sorry, Alice, I never meant to cause—”

 

“There is no need for apology, husband.”  _ Bollocks _ ! Why can she not discover a knack for teasing him without causing him undue fear? Suddenly, this – her Revelation – is not going at all the way she’d hoped it would. So she takes a carefully measured breath and says, before any  _ additional _ misunderstandings can occur: 

 

“Before yesterday, I was being torn in two directions. My Body and Physiology were still tied to Above’s notions, but my Heart and Mind were— _ are _ ,” she stresses, “firmly entrenched here in Underland. We would have been always victim to my body’s whims if things had stayed as they currently were. The Queen confided in me that there exists a Solution...” 

 

Tarrant looks at her, green eyes enormous. It’s clear he now Sees what direction this conversation is going. 

 

“The Elixir,” he breathes, “but I thought ’twas naught but legend, a myth, a rumor—!”

 

Alice strokes the side of his face. “No. Not a legend. Nor is it a myth, any more than I am.” 

 

“That… is not as comforting as I believe you intend for it to be, Alice.” 

 

She snorts, and steps closer to him again. Their bodies are now close enough that a deep breath would cause them to brush against one another. The hand that had been stroking his face snakes up, tangles itself amongst his hair.

 

“Are you calling my existence the result of innuendo and a vague, Oraculum-based rumor?” 

 

Tarrant is not distracted by her existential query. 

 

“Alice, you can’t possibly understand… the consequences of drinking that brew…”

 

“What can’t I understand?” she counters. “That by drinking it I will be able to stay in Underland forever? That I will no longer have to live with the constant fear that one wrong misstep in my Heart will result in my re-emergence in London? One hasty or mistaken Heartfelt Wish later and we would be apart?”

 

His mouth opens, closes. His throat works, swallows, but no sound emerges. Finally he manages to croak, “I can not let you do this for me, Alice. You’ve given me enough—more than enough! And I would never presume to ask you to—”

 

She takes a step back, considers him. He’s serious, she realizes. Tarrant really  _ does _ think she had done this just for him. Admittedly, her husband (and she is growing ever-fonder of that term, she realizes) had factored heavily into it, but he is not the  _ sole _ reason for her Ultimate Decision.

 

“What makes you think I did this only for you? Is it not possible that I also did it for myself?” Alice feels her brows draw together in a determined slant. “And a husband  _ asking _ his wife to stay with him is not presumptuous in the least, in my opinion.” 

 

“Alice, I can not allow you to do this!” He sounds quite distressed; if Alice hadn’t Known his Heart through the Crown and their subsequent visits here, she might have begun to doubt the veracity of his statement: His desire for her to stay in Underland. 

 

“There is nothing to  _ allow _ or  _ dis _ allow, Tarrant. I drank the potion yesterday morning. It’s done.” 

 

He sucks in a deep breath. Alice tightens her grip on him, lifts her other arm, and wraps him close to her in a hug. His arms finally raise and enfold her, pulling her tight to him in a crushing grip.

 

“But your family, Alice! Your mother, your sister!”

 

“I know,” she whispers into his hair.

 

“Ye’ll ne’er be able to go Above again, Alice. Ever.” Tarrant sounds close to tears at that, and Alice is uncertain if he is crying for what she has willingly lost, or for all she has now gained.

 

“I know,” she tells him again, pulling him even tighter.  “But I will be able to visit for an hour, if I feel I must.” She turns her head just enough to nuzzle past his hair to press a kiss to the shell of his ear. “I knew what I was doing, Tarrant. And as I told you that day in our garden, if you even  _ think _ of suggesting that I should have returned, I’ll find some mud and begin crafting the messiest pie you can imagine.” 

 

The joke is meant to soothe him, to break the tension of the moment, but instead, Tarrant begins to shudder and shake in her arms. Continuing to hold him close, she murmurs soft words of comfort, and it is only when she feels wetness on her shoulder that Alice realizes he’s begun to cry. 

 

“ _ Slurvish _ o’ meh… buh… par’to’ meh… ye were such a strange creature in aur land, laddie, and nauw… but ye were mine, and only mine! And nauw… but ye’re here, and yer stayin’, but… there will… an’ ye are…” Alice realizes, with a growing sense of horror, that there may have been more to Tarrant’s objections to her drinking the Elixir than she had first considered. Who would have thought it had been her very foreignness that so endear her to him? She’s about to draw away, confusion mixing with a dash of panic, when he continues with, “But ye’re still Alice, you’ll always be Alice, absolutely  _ the _ Alice! The Bottom o’ yer Heart has always been here, in Underland.”

 

Finally she does pull back, just enough so that she can look into his face. Tarrant attempts to turn away, as if he is ashamed of the tears still decorating his lashes. Alice stops him with a murmured, “Husband...”

 

It works as it has worked for the past week and more. Tarrant stops, looks at her, and, with a smile still luminous despite the way it wobbles at the corners, whispers, “Yes, my wife?”

 

“You’re right,” she replies, brushing away a stray droplet with her thumb. “I am still Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh; Champion; wife of Tarrant Hightopp, Haberdasher to the White Queen... None of that has changed.” Taking a deep breath, she says, “The only difference is that I am Underlandian now. Officially. In Body, Mind,  _ and _ Heart.” Quieter, she adds, “I thought you’d be happy. Do you wish I’d stayed as I was?” She had been Unique, she realizes with a flash of insight. Exotic, even, by Underlandian standards... however backwards those are.

 

Eyes jerking to meet hers, Tarrant insists, “No!” He rears back as if the very idea of her staying the same is abhorrent, as if he had not been the one just mourning the loss of the last few pieces (aside from what memories she has) of her Above self. “I am! I  _ am _ happy, Alice, so terribly, terribly happy, you can’t even imagine. Why, if there were a Room just for how Happy you’ve made me in my Heart, it would be larger than Marmoreal! Deeper than the water in the Crimson Sea! Taller than Mr. Mungdy’s Mysterious Mountain! I just…” He reaches up, untangles her hand from his hair, and lowers it, clasping it tightly. His thumb brushes over that spot where, traditionally, a ring symbolizing the type of union they share, rests. “I love you, Alice…  wife .  _ So much _ . I just don’t want you to regret…”

 

“I know,” Alice nods, the words she has been suspecting are growing more and more true with every passing day (but is still afraid to utter) sticking in her throat. “I know. But I won’t.” 

  
“You can’t know that...” Coming to some sort of internal decision, Tarrant nods his head, his hat bobbing its agreement with his decisiveness. “Alice, there is something I haven’t told you. Something that you should have known, before you made a decision such as this.”

  
“What could possibly change my mind? Mirana informed me of what will happen, and it’s nothing that—”

  
“I don’t mean... the Queen could not have prepared you for... I suspect that even she, with her infinite wisdom, does not know the depths of what I fear I am capable of. I... Alice....” he reaches out for her again, grasps her hands with his warm fingers, “I think it’s time. Past time, perhaps... for you to see my Darkest Secret.”

  
It is clear that Tarrant does not really wish for Alice to see this secret, but something about her drinking the Elixir has made him feel obligated, now. Her actions have pushed him into this decision. Alice shakes her head.

  
“I don’t want you to feel like you have no choice but to show it to me. When you’re ready, then you’ll show me.” 

  
“Nay, Alice.” He swallows. “I mun show ye nauw.” He clears his throat and shifts toward the wooden bridge and the looming portcullis and the Thing he fears that must exist within his own Heart. “If you’ll follow me?”  



	41. Darkest Secrets, Part 1

Tarrant’s Room is as warm and bright as it ever has been. She exhales as she allows the feeling of peace and belonging she always feels here to fill her up from the inside out, relishes the sensation as it washes through her being with each breath. She still has not invited him into her Heart... she only hopes that when she extends her invitation, he will feel half as wonderful within her Room as she feels in his. He waits while Alice takes a few moments to settle and center herself, then tugs her further into the room.

  
“It’s over here.” 

  
He takes her to a spot that is very familiar—it has been here since she had first stepped foot into this room, in fact. Gesturing to the empty space, he says, “Just here.” 

  
Alice blinks, stares,  _ wills _ whatever it is to appear, but still sees nothing. “There is nothing there, husband,” she says, softly.

  
Shoulders hunching, he steps away from her and towards that blank space. “You’ve never been able to see it, but it’s always been here, Alice.” With a hand that shakes, he reaches out, grasps a handful of something that she can not see, and tugs. What is revealed has her gasping, and taking a step closer. 

  
It is the gingham dress she’d worn the morning of their... while she had been jelly-making with.... the evidence of her betrayal—even unwittingly done—closes her throat, makes regret bring stinging tears to her eyes. 

  
“I wouldn’t... I didn’t mean to hurt you, Tarrant.” While Alice had been  _ going _ to say that she would never hurt him, she realizes: that isn’t exactly true, is it? Even if she had not meant to, she already had hurt Tarrant. Quite badly, from the looks of it. She thinks of the so-similar dress form in her own Room, and its presence in her Room finally makes a horrid sort of sense. That is her fear—her Dark Secret: she fears that he will leave her one day, either by choice or circumstance. She fears that she will be alone and adrift once more... her life out of control and at the mercy of others’ whims. Once, Alice might have been able to bear that unbearable circumstance, but now that she has Tarrant... now that he has Shown her the possibilities of what They could be together... Alice needs him too much, now, for the idea of him being gone—for idea of Them  _ not _ being Alice-and-Tarrant instead of Just Alice and Just Tarrant—to not wrench something inside of her tight.

  
Incredulousness splashes itself across his features. “You think...” His fingers flex and unflex, twitch with the need to move. She suspects that he’s holding himself back from re-covering the dress form by sheer force of will. Scrunching his eyes tightly closed, he grits, “I think ye’d best take a closer look, my... Alice.” He stumbles away from her, sinks down into the nearby rocking chair, and hunches his shoulders, looking like a man who is expecting a terrible blow.

  
He’s shaking, and her first inclination is to go to him, but instead she listens to him and looks—Really Looks—at the dress on the form. Alice’s eyes had skittered over it at first, as all of her own personal associations with that frock had not inclined her to make a lengthy study of the fruit-juice splattered fabric. Now, though, she blinks, focuses, and Sees what Tarrant had been trying to say. Sees, and then wishes she hadn't. 

_  
Oh dear sweet Underland... _

  
Taking a step towards the dress, her eyes fix on the ripped, tattered hemline, on the spill of petticoats and the disturbingly accurate set of bloomers...  and the dark spotting of something that could not be anything but...

  
“Oh, Tarrant...” she whispers. A half turn, and she’s facing him once more. “I wouldn’t... I didn’t! That morning with Sir Geoffrey was all a terrible misunderstanding... I was never interested in him as I am you, I wouldn’t—” It occurs to – like whisper on the wind – that they had discussed this before... Tarrant had seemed so  _ sure _ that she had not gambled away her virtue rashly as the London Socialites had maliciously accused. But, this...! Surely he cannot think that she had...?

  
Her husband begins to chuckle, a low, rumbling sound, that doesn’t reflect amusement in the least. It sounds... pained. 

  
“Mae Alice,” he sighs, “always seein’ the best, and no’ tha worst. Ye trust tae muchly for yer own gehd, lass.”

  
She looks from Tarrant, to the dress form, and back again.

_   
Ye trust too much... _

  
He couldn’t possibly think...!

  
But it’s clear to Alice, from the way that he sits, the way that his eyes are refusing to meet hers, that he does. So many memories coalesce in her brain, so many small signs and signals that she’d either not seen or willfully ignored.

  
The portcullis, the moat, the bridge – the  _ draw _ bridge!

  
That day in his workshop:  “ _ I need ye... ta gae nauw, Alice...  _ _ ** please ** _ _ ...” _

  
His look of utter shock at the words she ’ d said, after they ’ d both found their pleasure together, though individually:  _ “The door wasn’t locked and I’m glad you were there.” _

  
He doesn’t fear her running off with another man. He fears her being taken advantage of...

_   
By him _ .

 

*~*~*~*

 

Silence wells in his Room as Alice finally Sees, Understands, and Comprehends the depth of his Darkness. 

  
Tarrant closes his eyes and waits. It is only a matter of time before Alice unfreezes herself, before she leaves him here alone in his crumbling Heart. He can hear the walls begin to shift and grind already—it is an awful sound, the sound of a Heart falling apart, a Heart Breaking.

  
Soft footsteps tread on the floor. Tightening his grip on the arms of the rocking chair, Tarrant tells himself he must not go after her. He must let his wife go, must let her leave this place, and never come back. His ears strain themselves for the last sounds of her he will likely ever hear, that of her feet taking her away from him, and towards safety. Towards a place  that is safe and a man that does not have such a Dark possibility lurking in his Heart.

  
Instead of carrying her away from him, though, it almost sounds like... as if she...

  
Has his madness swallowed him so completely? Is he now imagining that she is actually drawing closer to him, rather than away, as she by all rights should be?

  
“Tarrant.” 

  
Clenching his jaw, he scrunches his eyes shut tighter. A rustle of cloth crawls into his ears and a whiff of Alice scent invades his nostrils. He inhales greedily, helplessly. Then a soft hand touches one of his knees, and he starts violently. His eyes pop open.

  
Alice is there, crouched beside him, on the  floor. It is one of her hands on his knee. When his eyes find hers looking at him, she says, very softly:

  
“Tarrant, you would never hurt me.”

  
He jerks his head away from her. Her grip tightens on his knee in response. Her voice, when she speaks again, sounds like velvet-encased steel.

  
“Look at me, Tarrant.”

  
Helplessly, he meets her gaze again. Muchness and determination tighten her features. 

  
“You... will not... hurt me.”

  
Unable to keep his silence any longer, Tarrant rebuts, “You  cannot know that, Alice.”

  
“I can,” she replies instantly. “I do. I know  _ you _ , Tarrant Hightopp. Husband. And that dress, on that form? That scenario never happened.  _ Will _ never happen. Have you forgotten that I’ve felt how much you love me?”

  
“No,” he whispers. How could he forget that, when it had been that moment, as she had been feeling his love and desperate need for her, that he had been feeling her almost-blindingly-brightly-pure trust in him? Trust that he is sure he will never fully deserve, not as long as the madness is still a part of him.

  
“I have faith in you, Tarrant.”

  
Alice rises slowly from her knees. When she’s fully standing, she bends at the waist and, after removing his top hat and setting it aside gently, kisses the top of his curly hair. She then tilts his face upwards, and kisses his forehead, her lips a soft blessing brushing against his skin.

  
“I would never forgive myself if I hurt you, Alice. And you can not deny that is a possibility. If my madness were to come over me...”

  
“It won’t.”

  
“It already has.”

  
The admission is painful—so extremely painful! He watches as confusion twitches her nose. But he’d started this: best to finish, and have Alice know just what sort of a man she is married to, before an annulment is no longer a possibility. 

  
“After seeing you speaking to that... to  _ Sir _ Geoffrey, in the halls, the day before the Queen wed us... I was so angry, and you’d been so distant—I was so afraid ye’d changed yer mind!—and I was thinking that I should have simply taken ye on that hilltop, that I should have eloped with ye and damn the Rules of Courtship, and...” 

_  
Say it, lad! _

  
“I don’t even remember opening my trousers, Alice. When the madness... finally let me go, there was just... the evidence. If you’d come into my room then, even just to speak to me, while I was... I don’t know that I wouldn’t have... been able to separate the fantasy from reality.”

  
The silence between them is profound. Tarrant hangs his head, shamed.

  
“Nonsense.”

  
Tarrant jerks his head up at this bold declaration. Alice makes it again.

  
“Complete nonsense. Tarrant, that would  _ never _ happen.”

  
“Alice, it’s—”

  
She places a single finger over his lips, silencing him.

  
“Didn’t you tell me yourself that you’d know me anywhere?”

  
He considers this. Yes, he  _ had _ told her that, hadn’t he? 

  
“I believed you then. I still believe that. Even if you were overtaken by the madness, Tarrant, I believe you would still know me.”

  
Yes, he would know her anywhere, wouldn’t he? Even his madness recognizes her. That’s rather the problem.

  
Alice must sense his continued disbelief, because her nostrils flare, her chin tilts upward, and she snorts. “Fine,” she says. Setting her jaw at a stroppy angle, she stomps back towards the dress on the form, and lifts it, stand and all. Tarrant watches, mouth agape, as she wrestles with the awkward bulk, until finally she has it tucked under her right arm.

  
“If you’re going to be stubborn about this,” she pants, “then I guess there’s only one thing I can do.” Dragging the form behind her, she flounces (as best as an Alice can flounce while dragging a dress form behind themselves) out of his space. Snapping out of his open-mouthed stupor, Tarrant shakes his head and rushes after her, tripping over his laces and stumbling into the frame of the door that leads to the draw bridge, the corridor, and Alice’s Heart. 

  
She is across his bridge and pushing open her Door before he reaches her. Hesitating, Tarrant hovers outside the threshold. He’d never been invited inside before, and despite  _ that _ being  _ his _ Darkest Secret under her arm...

  
“Well?” Alice arches a brow at him in challenge. “Are you coming?”

  
He doesn’t need to be invited twice. One blink of his eyes and he’s across the threshold and in her Room for the very first time.

  
And he is Welcomed. His breath catches as a warmth that does not come from the cheerful flame burning in the hearth steals over him, wraps itself around him like Alice arms and Alice kisses and strands of windblown Alice hair... He  _ belongs  _ here. Just as – he had explained the first time Alice had entered his Room – she belongs  _ there. _ Suddenly he feels the sensation for himself of being Inside another’s Heart. How long has he been Welcome here? Does this mean her feelings have Changed? Or has he always been in her Heart?

  
The desire to immediately devour all that is before him with his eyes is too great; Alice waits patiently while he looks at the walls, the flooring, the green velveteen chair... and finally to the merrily burning hearth, and the woman standing beside it. Then she methodically begins stripping the form. 

  
Alice is not careful with the garments. Tarrant winces when he hears fabric rip and tear with her determination. Dropping the dress itself to the ground, she starts on removing the layers of torn and tattered and stained petticoats, and, after removing and dropping those, moves at last to the bloomers. 

  
Tarrant simply watches as Alice lays the dress form she’d drug from his room bare. When she’s done, Alice bends, gathers up the dress in one hand, and the undergarments in the other. Then, with absolutely no fanfare whatsoever, she shoves the clothing into the hearth.

  
Together they watch in silence as the fabric first chars, then smolders, before finally catching and immolating before them.

  
Only after what is left of the dress crumbles and falls away to mix with the ashes in her fire grate does either one of them speak.

  
“I’ve wanted to do that for quite some time,” Alice says. Shrugging her shoulders as if to shake off the lingering vestiges of the past quarter hour, she continues with, “And now I have something to show you. There is something here in my Room that made no sense at all to me, until I saw... that... in your Room with you.” After gesturing briefly at the merrily burning fire that had just destroyed the physical manifestation of his greatest fear, Alice holds out her hand, inviting him to stand with her. Until that moment, Tarrant hadn’t realized he’d collapsed into the green armchair. He accepts her assistance, and together they walk towards a shadowy, albeit empty, corner of Alice’s room.

  
“You... have a dress, as well?” Tarrant guesses, only slightly surprised when Alice clears her throat and nods.

  
“Yes. Yes, I do. Just there.” She motions towards the corner, and Tarrant nods. 

  
“I think you shall have to Uncover it, Alice.”

  
He watches as she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and, with the hand not still clinging to his, reaches out, and twitches the sheet back, revealing that which is underneath. 


	42. Darkest Secrets, Part 2

“That is... well, it’s... I must confess, Alice, that while it is truly an appalling example of Above’s restrictive corsetry and high-necked collars...”

  
No, he wouldn’t know, would he? Alice has never attended a funeral in Underland. She doesn’t know what the citizens of this land (of which she is now a member!) do to mourn those who have passed, but she would have been more surprised to learn that donning black is a commonality than not.

  
“The hat is a remarkable piece of haberdashery, though. And the embroidery on the gloves and handkerchief is...”

  
Voice drying up to nothingness, Tarrant seems to just notice her silence, her stiff stance, her tightly clamped shut lips. One of his warm hands reaches up to her face. “What is this, my Alice?”

  
Forcing her mouth to open is more difficult than she imagined it would be; when she speaks, it is in a dull whisper that she barely even recognizes as her own. Where had all her muchness gone? Just moments ago she had been tossing Tarrant’s fears into the fire, deriding them as silly and ridiculous. Shame tickles the back of her throat. How could she have so casually dismissed his concerns? If he had felt—and most likely still feels, despite her burning of the dress—the way she does about her own Dark Secret, her Fear, then she’d just done him a great disservice. 

  
He’d been remarkably brave about his Secret, she realizes. To speak of her own aloud seems nearly impossible.

  
“It is a widow’s gown,” she forces herself to say. “What I will wear one day, when you... leave me.”

  
He startles. The hand cradling the side of her face drops. 

  
Tarrant is much swifter with correctly piecing together the clues the dress and her  demeanor than she had been with his. 

  
“You can’t believe that I would ever leave you, wife.” 

  
Sniffling back the tears that had sprung to her eyes, Alice retorts, “There may come a time when you do not have a choice in the matter, Tarrant. Things happen. People die. We both know that very well.”

  
Incongruously, he starts to giggle. A less-battered-than-a-few-weeks-ago hand flutters up to his mouth, the fingers pressing themselves to the seam of his lips. The giggles can not be contained, though, and escape between his digits and into the air. 

  
“What a fine pair we make, my wife,” he manages between bursts of nervous chuckling. “I, who am afraid to be with you, and you, who are afraid to be with _ out _ me.” 

  
Well, when he puts it that way...

  
Alice giggles despite herself as a tear wells out of the corner of her eye. She brushes it away with a dash of her knuckles.

  
“What shall we do about it, husband?” 

  
“I may have an idea,” Tarrant tells her.

  
A quarter hour later finds the widow’s weeds joining the ashes of the gingham gown. When both dresses are fully burnt, Alice turns to where the dress frames are keeping each other company (as being naked is an uncomfortable state of being for dress forms, Tarrant had informed her, and it may make it a bit easier on the curving metal frames if they were together rather than separate) and sees... nothing. 

  
“They’re gone,” she says. 

  
“So they are,” Tarrant agrees. 

  
“Is it because we both...confronted them?” Alice  can’t help but ask. Her husband tilts his head to one side, considering. He is seated once again in the green velvet armchair; she, on a gold-fringed, tufted ottoman that is another new addition to the room. 

  
“I suspect so.” 

  
“Does that mean...we’ve successfully accomplished that particular step of our Courtship?” 

  
Red brows lift. Green-gold eyes blink, and then  _ shine _ at her. “I believe so. It.... feels that way to me.” He taps his chest, right below his collarbone, briefly. “Does it feel that way to you?” 

  
“Yes, it does.” 

  
When the silence between them starts to grow again, Alice speaks up, just so that Tarrant is certain of her feelings on the matter. 

  
“I’m glad.” 

  
Now he’s smiling at her, and it is a glorious smile. If she were able to bottle emotions to savor them later, the emotion that is stretching his face into that particular smile would be one that she would desire to keep on hand at all times. 

  
“As am I.” Not removing his eyes from hers, he says, “Thank you, Alice, for letting me into your Heart. Being Welcomed here is... an honor.”

  
“You are Welcome here any time it pleases you,” Alice offers. The fluttering of his bow tie and brightening of his suit jacket enthusiastically hint at his opinion on the matter. Still, Alice is not disappointed when he vocalizes:

  
“Even if it should please me to be here oftener than I should?” 

  
Alice rises, takes the two steps over to her husband’s side, and, with careful and reverent fingers, lifts the top hat from his curls. “Of course,” she says, placing the hat atop her own golden locks. “As long as, occasionally, you allow me to wear this remarkable hat.” 

  
She expects a giggle, a guffaw, or even a chortle. The response she instead receives is infinitely more satisfying. His mouth falls open into the smallest of 'o's. It is the very same expression that she had last seen on his features after she’d looked up after devouring the pear. Then another ever-growing-familiar glimmer enters his eyes: that of a Naughtiness she’d dearly love to investigate. 

  
“My dear wife,” Tarrant lisps huskily, “You may wear that hat whenever you desire.” 

  
Bending at the waist to give him a kiss, Alice watches as Tarrant leans away from her, despite clearly not wishing to. “I  don’t know if that is the best of ideas, my Alice. If I were to kiss ye here, and now, with ye wearing...” he trails off, but he has already said enough that Alice understands. The bed, which she’d largely ignored until now, suddenly looms very large in the background. She swallows convulsively, then reaches up, removes the hat from her own head, and returns it to her husband, gently settling it atop his hair.

  
“We’ll save this for later, then, shall we?” 

  
His mouth quirks to the side. “You may rely upon it.”  



	43. The Painted House

“This is... it ’s...”

  
“Yes?” Tarrant presses anxiously. He is no Painter, he knows, but he had done his best to stay true to his wife’s suggestions and imaginings. Perhaps he had flattered himself Too Much in thinking he could replicate the visions in Alice’s mind. They do not share an Imagination, after all, even if they  _ do _ share their Hearts. “Alice?” he prompts, feeling his heart beginning to twist and coil in his chest, as if it is wringing itself.

  
He watches his wife –  _ his  _ _ ** wife! ** _ – step back away from the living room windows, her footsteps softly echoing against the pale wood floor. Tarrant’s hands itch for his brushes and paint pots. He knows just the rug that will enamor Alice to this room! Oh, if only he had thought of it sooner, why it’s—

  
“Perfect,” she says, turning and smiling, her hair glowing in the sunlight. “ This house...  _ our  _ house... It’s  _ perfect. _ ”

  
He sighs out his misgivings and anxieties, smiles with relief and satisfaction as she dances – twirling with the dust motes – toward him. “I’m so happy you like it.”

  
“Of course I like it!” She pivots within range and Tarrant reflexively puts out his arms to catch her... but then, with a wicked grin, she ducks under his arm and galumphs past him. “But I’ve only seen the one room! I might change my mind!” she sing-songs.

  
Tarrant snorts as he turns to follow her. “If you were hoping to make me nervous with that threat, you failed,” he informs her. “You sound much too delighted to feed my fretting.”

  
“Then perhaps it will grow hungry and wander off in search of Greener Pastures,” she replies, skipping backward through the kitchen, trailing her fingertips along the underside of the cabinets and then spinning herself into the doorway of the bathing room. He had put it in the tower, as originally planned all those years ago when he had begun dabbling in House Painting. He had not expected Alice to insist on leaving that part of the house unchanged, but he had been unable to deny the mischievous twinkle in her eyes when she’d adamantly supported the idea.

  
In fact, he had not expected a lot of things.

  
He had not expected Alice to forsake a life Above, to give up the family that she had grown up with.

  
He had not expected her to – upon witnessing his Darkest Secret – confront it. Destroy it. He had not expected her to try to protect him from that. He had expected her to ask him for some time to consider Things. He had even half expected his stubborn wife to begin doubting the wisdom of drinking the Eternally Under... She had not done either of those things.

  
He had never expected to  fall in love with Alice. To be married to her. And yet, here he is, with  _ his wife _ , Alice Kingsleigh, in the house which he’d Painted.

  
Tarrant feels a grin stretch his lips as wide as they can possibly go as his wife’s delighted laughter echoes up in the cavernous space of their bathing room tower. Just as he steps  up to the threshold, moves to put one foot in the room, Alice is out of it, brushing past him and giving him a poke in the side as she does so. He twitches and giggles and then listens as she races up the stairs to the second floor.

  
He doesn’t follow her.

  
Although he had built all of the rooms upstairs, only one of them had been finished and furnished: their room. The rest are merely sketches; plain white walls held together with black strips of pencil leading. Until they know for certain what they wish those spaces to be, sketches they will remain.

  
He leans against the rounded, stone wall of the tower where it intersects with the kitchen and closes his eyes. Much of the house is still bare inside. There is no sofa in the living room opposite the hearth... not yet. Nor is there a table and set of chairs in the kitchen’s dining nook. There is a bathtub in the tower room along with other necessary fixtures, but the bulk of his Nesting energies he’d spent upstairs. In  _ their _ room, he knows precisely what Alice will find: the brick hearth and the rug she had so ardently advocated, a settee just large enough for two with a table for holding books and beverages and reading glasses and hair ribbons, the bookshelves that they will fill with all their favorite stories and histories and how-to texts, the windows with their striped shutters and tea-leaf paper shades, and the bed. Tarrant had spent quite a lot of effort on that bed. He’d gone through several sketches in his drawing book as well.

  
He waits, marveling at the silence upstairs. Tarrant leans his head back against the walls and imagines Alice’s reverence as she inspects the shelves, caresses the settee’s pale blue upholstery, trails a single finger around the little oak table, and even sits down on the bed. Perhaps she leans back and rolls into the center of it, looks up at the green canopy, counts the populace of pillows that Tarrant had indulged in.

  
He wishes he could see her expression. He wishes he felt confident in controlling himself with her as she glows with happiness in  _ their _ room with  _ their  _ bed only two strides away. It had been difficult enough keeping his distance in her Heart space... but here, in a room with a bed that is  _ theirs _ .... He is not confident, despite Alice’s confidence in him. True, she had burnt that gingham dress in her hearth, had Welcomed him into her Heart, had shared her secret with him, had accepted his reassurances that he would never leave her alone, that he would never make her weak or powerless, that he would never be anything less than her dearest friend... although he hopes he will one day be considerably More...

  
Yes, that More is also troubling. Alice wants him... and  _ oh _ , how he wants her. That has not dulled, abated, or lessened one whit! Yet he still fears he will hurt her. He had not had the heart to tell her that his Darkest Secret remains in his Heart still. She had destroyed it once... but not for all time. It still haunts him although it is insubstantial now, a ghost... a mirage of terror... and he suspects it will continue to haunt him until he finds the strength to face it, to dare to make love to his wife, to trust himself that he will not injure her in his selfishness, his desperation, his inexperience, his madness.

  
He sighs, wondering at the miracle of his wife. She knows about those things – those traits – of his. She knows and yet she wishes to stay married to him. She is  _ trying _ to love him. Perhaps she will never Love him, not as he does her, but that is fine. It is more than fine. She has promised to be his and they are together and these sorts of things grow with time, do they not? One day, perhaps years from now, she will Love him. Alice has never failed at anything she has tried, so he has faith. One day... Yes, one day she will offer that to him. He will wait. Although he will not make  _ her _ wait for him.

  
Today is the twenty-eighth day. At sunset, their Courtship will be over. Officially finished. They’ve followed all the proper steps, from Beholding the Key to Their Hearts right on through Reaping What They Hath Sown—they’d plucked a few fresh vegetables off the vine just two mornings past. There is nothing to prevent them from joining together, now, no excuse he may make that would be anything other than a delaying tactic instigated by his own concerns. He will give her what he had promised, even though he fears himself. He owes it to his wife to be the man she believes she’d married. He owes it to their future to deal with that gut-clenching fear once and for all...

  
“Husband?”

  
He blinks open his eyes and looks down. Somehow, Alice had managed to descend the stairs and creep up on him in utter silence. “I was just thinking about you,” he tells her, keeping his hands at his sides. “What did you think of the... our room?”

  
The smile she gives him is an answer in itself. It is a slow gentling of her features, a soft curving of her lips, a luminous glow of her eyes that would not have been possible had she not drunk the Elixir. His breath catches and he struggles with the desire to embrace her. “I think,” she begins, “there is only one thing in the world that I believe is better than the room you made for us.”

  
“And what might that be?” he inquires, his brows twitching as he considers and discards alternative after alternative.

  
She reaches a hand up to his jaw and he leans into the touch. Waits. Wonders... Is it possible Alice loves him more now than she had a fortnight ago? Had he not felt the fledgling emotion on the  Crown, he would have assumed that she  _ does _ love him. But the memory of that emotion returns, reminds him that Alices are stubborn and not prone to change. And she has changed quite a lot in the last week and a bit has she not? No, certainly there is no room left in his budget of miracles for  _ that. _ But it is fine. He is fine. Everything is fine.

  
“You,” she answers in a tone that suggests he should have known that. “The only thing I prefer to our room is the man who made it.”

  
He grins, unable to beat back his hope. And he does Hope. But he must be patient!

  
He has no words; no replies come to him so he merely smiles at his wife and she pets his jaw. He is tempted to close his eyes, imagine her lips forming the words he  _ so  _ wants to be true...

  
She sighs. It is a sound of resolution. “I have something to show you.”


	44. The Pear Tree

When she holds out her hand, he takes it. He follows her to the kitchen door and when she pauses in front of it, he reaches for the handle, tickles it, and the door obligingly opens.

  
“I ’m afraid the knob doesn’t care for being Man Handled,” he explains and Alice giggles.

  
“Well, as I’m not a man, perhaps it won’t mind my handling it!”

  
Tarrant giggles with her. “My wife, the door knob would be a creation of poor taste indeed if it objects to your delightful touch.”

  
“ _ These _ hands,” she replies, “are only meant to be delightful for one person.”

  
“And who might that be?”

  
“Who, indeed,” she muses, leading him down the flagstone path she had also requested. Tarrant waits for her to continue teasing him, perhaps with a hint or a riddle, but she does not do that. She leads him to what appears to be an arbor with grape vines climbing it. As they draw nearer, he notices that the vines are quite new – just stitched by the look of them – and as he glances  _ through  _ the arbor...

  
He stumbles to a halt. “Alice...?”

  
“My first not-random doorway. Arbor-way,” she introduces him. “I thought it might be convenient for visiting our garden.”

  
“Yes,  and not to discount the monumental accomplishment of convincing not one but two arbors to be so ambitious, but... that is not our garden...” No, indeed it is  _ not _ for  _ that _ is a pear tree, laden with purple-skinned fruit, nearly identical to the one he had offered Alice weeks ago, to the one he had watched her eat, to the one he had fallen in lust with her over, to the one that had provided the impetus for his heart to Open to her... A pear... very similar to the ones hanging from this tree had shown him Alice’s innocence and passion... and had made him Want her...

  
“It is,” Alice argues.

  
“No, there are no pear trees in our garden, Alice.”

  
“I Sewed one,” she informs him and then he feels himself being pulled toward the arbor. Numb, he obeys his feet, which rather enthusiastically follow.

  
“You...” he says, taking in the fact that here, on the other side of the arbor, Tarrant  _ is  _ in their garden. He chastises himself for not paying closer attention to it these last few days – he’d been so busy with Painting that is seems he’d somehow let an entire  _ tree _ escape his notice! But he notices it now.

  
Alice brushes her thumb over the back of his hand before disentangling hers and approaching the tree. Its leaves flutter when she places her hand on its trunk, recognizing its creator. No, there is no doubt in Tarrant’s mind: Alice had Sewn this tree. And suddenly, he understands how she had hidden it from him.

  
She had always insisted on walking him through their garden to the edge of the woods (from that vantage point, this tree would have been hidden by the blueberry hedges and serviceberry trees that encircle it. In fact, the only way he could have spotted it would have been by glimpsing the arbor Alice had set up here which looks out onto the sundial and the four o’clocks.  (The arbor through which they had passed merely separates the circle of tame serviceberry trees from the wild trees of the wood. Glancing over his should her confirms that Alice  _ had _ created a true doorway – he sees the rear-side of their house with its flagstone path leading up to the kitchen door.) Of course, Alice had distracted him as they’d passed by this little thicket of berry trees, day after day. And she had always gone to find him to have lunch with  _ him _ where he’d been Painting rather than allowing him to come  _ here  _ and find  _ her _ ...

  
“Philomena told me that it’s tradition for a Courting couple to share their feelings this way, through the Fruit of their Labors.”

  
Tarrant looks away from the sundial, regards his wife’s wistful expression, and then stares at the pear tree. His mouth is suddenly dry. Surely, Alice does not mean to...

  
She does.

  
He watches as she reaches for a particularly succulent-looking fruit, cradles it in her hands closes her eyes and concentrates. He watches as her fingers move over the skin of the fruit, as she brings it to her mouth and nuzzles it... Tarrant feels a sudden shock of heat at the sight of his wife being... so very  _ close _ with a mere piece of fruit.

  
Dear Underland, but if she will attend to a pear this way... how would she nuzzle and caress  _ him? _

  
Tarrant gives himself a shake. Reminds himself why he is here. Alice wishes to give him a Taste of her Feelings for him.

  
A Taste...

  
Does she love—?

  
Tarrant slams that door to that thought shut. No, he will not think it, hope for it, expect it. He will not let her see his disappointment when he Tastes the same feelings she had Shown him through the Crown.

  
He watches as she gently pulls the fruit from the branch of the tree. She holds it in both hands, her brows still beetled in focus as she steps toward him. With a final caress to the pear, she holds it out to him with an invitation. “Only if you wish to...”

  
He is not sure he does. He is afraid of a lack of change even as he is curious enough to wish for a taste. Knowing Alice’s Heart had been an exquisite experience. Tasting her Feelings for him... he can only imagine how glorious that could be. He fears that despite the gloriousness of it, he will feel nothing different from her at all... It is enough to make him pause, but he does not hesitate visibly. He reaches for the pear. His fingertips brush over her palm as he takes it. He is shaking inside; so long as he does not Know or does not Taste he can imagine that Alice has grown to love him...

  
He lifts the fruit to his lips, inhales, watches Alice over the curve of its skin. He opens his mouth and – holding onto it tightly lest it squirm away from him suddenly despite the fact that it shows no inclination to do so – sets his teeth against its fragrant purple skin... and bites.

  
Juice explodes onto his tongue. Juice and pear flesh and he closes his eyes, chews once, twice...

  
And he feels it. Alice’s regard for him  _ infuses _ him with bright, blinding, brilliant intensity.

  
He gasps, clamping his jaw shut and pressing the bite against the roof of his mouth with his tongue to hold it there, to keep it, to feel wave after wave of emotion  rolling through him again and again and...!

  
“Tarrant!  _ Tarrant! _ Open your eyes! Are you all right?”

  
He nods his head – a bit frantically perhaps, due to the overwhelming Muchness of Alice’s feelings – and obeys her request and looks at her. His wife leans over him – when had he fallen to his knees? – her hands on his face. He cannot see her clearly. He cannot see her expression through the fuzzy haze of heat burning his eyes. She swims in and out of focus with each pulse of light that overwhelms him.

  
“No... Oh, no,” she frets. “I’m so sorry. I’m  _ so _ sorry. Forgive me. I must have misunderstood how to... Or I didn’t concentrate enough and... I’m so,  _ so _ sorry!”

  
Tarrant leans into her shoulder, inhales against her fragrant neck as she embraces him. Still, clutching the pear, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, sitting back on his rump and hauling her into his lap.

  
“I just wanted to tell you... I love you,” she whispers.

  
He shakes his head in the space between her neck and shoulder.

  
“I  _ do _ !” she insists. “Please, you  _ must  _ believe me! These last few weeks have been the happiest of my life and I  _ love _ you!”

  
“Nay,” he chokes out, swallowing the half-chewed bite of pear flesh. “Nay... Ye  _ Love _ me, Alice,” he whispers, grasping her closer. “Ye  _ Love _ me...”

  
She relaxes against him, her softer body melting into his. “I do.” Her whisper stirs his hair ; How can she Love him with such frizzy, disordered,  _ orange _ hair? – but she  _ does! _

  
“I love you, Tarrant Hightopp, my husband.”

  
He sobs then, for those words, all together and in that order have made it True. He presses his tear-wetted lips against her skin, her hair, her tunic... Alice Loves  _ him. _

  
The pear from the tree that Alice had Sewn speaks for her, and it Speaks the truth. He still tastes it on his tongue!

  
And when he realizes that his fingers are still locked around the bitten fruit, he sobs again. For he realizes that Alice had given him not just one Taste but many... and the tree! Why, if he ever desires to Taste her Feelings again... Is he a fool to think that all he would have to do is ask?

  
Perhaps he is. He is an old, married Fool. And his wife is Alice and she Loves him... and if that is what it means to be a Fool, he will be one gladly. In fact, there is nothing and no one in all the worlds that he would  _ rather _ be!


	45. Under the Boughs

Handing her husband the pear she had picked just for him should not have been so nerve-wracking. But that had been nothing compared to his dramatic reaction to his first bite. His eyes had very nearly rolled up into his head; his entire body had jerked once and then he had crashed to his knees. For a torturous instant she had feared...

_   
Is he choking? Had she given him a variety of pear that is poisonous? Or had she infused it with her feelings incorrectly? Had Philomena lied to her or had Alice misunderstood? Or—? _

  
For one truly terrible moment, she had thought back to the widow ’s weeds... sometimes she still sees them out of the corner of her eye in her Room... like a figure pressing through a mist... Had they been trying to tell her something far more alarming than she had thought? Will  _ she _ be the cause of her own solitude and abandonment? Will she inadvertently push him away... injure him... kill...?

  
But no. No, thank Underland! No, she had not done those things. He had opened his eyes, wept openly while smiling with such joy and relief and awe it had nearly broken her heart. He had pulled her into his arms – and she ’d tried to be careful with her knees and elbows which had seemed twice as awkward as usual – and clutched the pear against her back and  _ shivered _ with reaction.

  
She had held him back just as tightly, had whispered into his ear, “I love you, Tarrant Hightopp, my husband.” And she had kept her arms around him as he had sobbed against her tunic.

  
Thankfully, the storm of emotions have long since passed. She leans back against the trunk of the pear tree, Tarrant’s head in her lap and considers the way the leaves play with the sunlight. Her right hand moves through his hair absently, petting and twirling locks around her fingers, combing and gently parting pathways to his scalp that disappear the instant her fingers move away.

  
She takes a deep breath and glances down at him, watches her husband consider the pear still held in his hand – and now held up for his inspection – and the single bite he had taken from it.

  
“You needn’t eat it all,” she whispers.

  
“There is nothing preventing me from doing so,” he tells her happily.

  
She tilts her head to the side. “So, does that mean I did it correctly? Putting my feelings into it, I mean.”

  
“Too well,” he replies enthusiastically on a cackle. He squirms a bit, tilting his head back over her thigh to meet her gaze. “Your feelings were highly... Concentrated.”

  
She snorts. “Well, I  _ was  _ concentrating very hard.” She chases a few strands of his hair as the breeze stirs them. “I’d never done anything like that before. I was sure I wouldn’t do it right and I would hand you a normal pear and you’d be so disappointed...”

  
“Alice, my silly,  _ silly _ wife. You could never disappoint me.”

  
“Good. Because I never want to.”

  
Bracing his not-pear-clutching hand against the ground, he sits up and turns swiftly to face her. “Alice... you realize that you have succeeded at everything you have tried? Why would this pear be any different?”

  
Alice feels a wry smile pull at her lips. She shakes her head, denying the praise. She is not so remarkable. Not really.  _ Tarrant  _ is the one who—

  
His fingers grip her chin suddenly, startling her out of her thoughts.

  
“Why do you not heed me on this?” he wonders softly in contrast to the firm press of his thumb against her chin.

  
She shrugs. “Perhaps because I never set out to do anything grand...”

  
“But you did. You slayed the Jabberwock. You sailed the world Above. You decided to love me... You very much intended to do those things.”

  
“Then... perhaps I was mistaken. I  _ did  _ set out to do those things... but not for the sake of grandness.”

  
He smiles. “Yes,” he lisps on a whisper. “Precisely, my Alice.” A breathless moment follows. Alice lifts a hand and wraps her fingers around his wrist, wonders if he will lean toward her, permit her to taste his lips...

  
Without breaking the embrace that their gazes are enjoying, he nods toward the arbor they had passed through from the backyard of their house, over the river and through the woods. “Do you think just anyone can make Doorways lead Somewhere, Alice? And do you think just  _ anyone _ could have convinced an arbor to take on the traits of its distant cousin, the archway? Why, the two are on such poor terms they are  _ never _ seen in the presence of each other! Can’t even stand to be in the same room together!”

  
She frowns. “I don’t understand. I thought... Well, doorways are everywhere in Underland, are they not? Can’t everyone make them?”

  
“No, my Alice. It takes a unique charm to flatter portals into sharing a threshold – very cozy, thresholds. Most doors are quite selfish, desiring both and entrance-side and an exit-side all their own. And arbors!” He huffs and Alice sighs at the evidence of his chuffed disbelief: he is Impressed.

  
“But, I simply asked them if—”

  
He swipes his thumb over her lips and gently interrupts. “I shall introduce you to the Queen’s Carpenter,” he promises. “Perhaps you will believe him. An expert in his field, so to speak.”

  
Faced with the impassioned obstinacy of the Devoted, Alice subsides. Let him think she is extraordinary. It feels... nice to be so regarded and so unabashedly.

  
“There it is,” he murmurs after a moment during which Alice feels her smile widen and her  heart warm.

  
“What?” she asks just as softly.

  
“Ye’re glowing, Alice,” he informs her.

  
She draws a breath to inform him that he’s looking rather luminous himself – his eyes are bright and the pale, stained skin of his face seems to be lit from within...

  
He presses his lips to hers. Finally. He frames her face in his hands even though one still grasps the pear. The smell of the fruit and the scent of him blend in the air and she moans into the hot, sweetness of his mouth. He tastes like the pear. And he tastes like Tarrant.

  
Home, she realizes. He tastes like home.

  
And when he pulls back, she does not sigh with loss. As she had told the Queen, Alice has lost nothing in choosing to marry this man, to become Underlandian, to stay with him...

  
“You make me happy,” she informs him.

  
For a long moment, he cannot speak through his smile. And then he replies huskily, “And I shall do my utmost to continue that trend, my Alice.”

  
Alice leans forward and steals a kiss for herself from his unprotesting lips and decides that she will let him. She will let him make her happy. She will let herself make  _ him _ happy.

  
“Are you going to finish that pear?” she asks against his mouth when she leans back.

  
“Little by little, my wife,” he whispers back, cradling the fruit to his vest. “I plan to savor it for as long as possible.”

  
And when he leans forward and presses his mouth to hers again, she not only forgets about the pear, she forgets about the sometimes-there black dress in her Room. Alice does not realize it at that moment, but she comes to understand later – when she passes through her Room once more and notices the truly empty space where the dress form had stood,  where only a vague, dress-shaped shadow lingers now – that with the aid of a single pear, her Fear had been defeated, had been turned into a mere Shadow of its former horror.

  
No, she does not realize this now. Now she is savoring this freely given kiss... and trying not to remind herself of the date. But of course she knows... how could she not? She has been counting down to this day for two fortnights.

  
“We’re still courting, Alice,” he reminds her, reminds  _ himself _ in a voice that is breathless. She smiles in commiseration and relaxes her grip on his jacket lapels.

  
“Then, let’s court,” she replies. “Take me for a walk, husband. I need to brush up on my Tree Speech.”

  
He giggles and winks. “Don’t let the trees hear you call it  _ brushing up _ . I’m afraid they might become quite offended at the mislabeling of their stature.”

  
“Ah, yes. Because they are Trees and not Brush.”

  
“Precisely.” He stands and offers Alice his hand – the one not still holding onto the pear – and she takes it.

  
He pulls her to her feet and she warns him: “I’m afraid I’ve already forgotten most of the Tree words you taught me. I shall need a translator, at least for a while.”

  
“A while, a ways... always, my Alice. However long, however far, I do not mind in the slightest... Have I made a rhyme?” He waggles his brows and Alice chuckles. Then, with a smile he offers her his arm and, chortling anew at his Courtly manners, she takes it.


	46. The End

Packing up their things would have taken a long time, had  _ someone _ not already directed the fish butlers and frog footmen to take care of the chore for them while they ’d been out.

  
“Who knows about our house?” Alice asks, considering the trunks that had been thoughtfully piled beside their door on the fourth floor of the West Wing’s Round Turret.

  
Tarrant frets over how to explain without Over-explaining. “The Queen. I informed her that I, or  _ we _ might be changing our residence following the completion of our Courtship...”

  
“Might?” she echoes.

  
“Yes. Those were my precise words exactly.”

  
“Hm. Well, I suppose being Queen, she can hear what she wants to.”

  
“That would be one of the benefits of her position, yes,” he agrees. “And it appears she is giving us her blessing on the matter.”

  
“Then what are we waiting for?” Alice asks, grinning cheekily.

  
That evening, they finish moving their things through their Rooms. 

  
“Is there no direct route we could take?” Alice had grumbled at one point (while helping to lug a particularly heavy trunk and Tarrant had wondered just what could Alice have in there? She’d only been in Underland for the span of two months and she’d already collected not only an impressive assortment of trunks, but quite  _ hefty  _ ones at that!) to which Tarrant had answered, “Shall I ask her Majesty’s permission to have a door in the castle open near our house? I suppose she would prefer that should she wish to summon us suddenly...” 

  
Alice had prevaricated, “Er, well, perhaps we’ll just discuss that with her... later.” 

  
The hot look Alice had given him over the trunk they’d been carrying between them had left little doubt in his mind as to her motivation for wishing to be...  _ inaccessible _ for the foreseeable future. The realization, however, had not helped to settle his nerves.

  
Those nerves are still fluttering, although weakly, as he waits for Alice to return to their room. They had picnicked outside in the garden for dinner (as he has yet to draw upon his resources and manage a table and chairs for the kitchen) and had taken turns bathing (each unpacking their trunks while the other had been washing up) and now the sun has set.

  
Their Courtship is over.

  
In deference to that, he had removed his jacket, waistcoat, and ascot (he senses that their presence somehow irritates his wife, although he is not sure why... _ yet _ ; he plans to inquire about that... eventually) and now he sits on the settee, a book that he isn’t reading in his hands and his glasses – through which he stares blankly – perched on his nose.

  
He knows what is coming. Alice had given him four weeks to court her, which he had done to the best of his abilities. His reward for that had been given to him earlier in the form of the pear she had grown and harvested just for him. His reward: her Love. And now,  _ her _ reward... Tarrant cannot fathom how he could be anyone’s reward, but he wants to be hers. He is simply not sure... The madness is still... And his self-control is not... And what if... But he  _ owes _ it to her to  _ try... _

  
“What are you reading?” Alice asks, startling him. He glances up and smiles sheepishly as she shuts the door behind her. Her hair is still damp and she is wrapped up snuggly in her robe and slippers. The wave of relief – she will not try to Tempt him; she will keep her promise to give him as much time as he needs! – nearly has him sliding to the rug on the floor.

  
“I’m not reading anything at the moment,” he replies honestly.

  
She chuckles and sits down next to him on the settee. She leans against his side, looks over his arm at the tome in his hand. “Ah...  _ Pride and Prejudice. _ Dipping into my book collection again, I see. Will you read a bit to me?”

  
He glances at her, quite flattered by her request. Unfortunately, she takes his silence and surprise for doubt.

  
“Please?” she implores.

  
“Of course, my dear. Of course.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she leans her hand on his thigh and the scent from her just-washed hair teases his nose and he reads as best he can with such exquisite distractions. 

  
Clearing his throat, Tarrant begins, “Every object in the next day ’ s journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment...” He holds the book with his left hand and she turns the pages for him with her right and when he arrives at the end of the chapter, she sighs happily.

  
“Thank you.”

  
“My pleasure,” he answers, pressing a kiss to her hair. It occurs to him then that he is no longer quite so distraught. He is nervous, still, but he feels...

  
The hand on his leg stirs. His hands twitch at the sensation and nearly chase after Alice’s arm as she stands and moves to consider the fire in the hearth. She is not pressuring him or asking him to make love to her... yet, he almost wishes she would.

  
Then, as if she reads his mind, she says, “It need not happen tonight, although I would have no objections if it did.”

  
Objections. Yes, they are hesitating now over  _ his _ objections,  _ his _ fears. He does not  _ want  _ to feel fear, not for any reason and most especially not here, with Alice in  _ their _ room. Tarrant knows he will have to face his madness sometime and he remembers the warmth of Alice’s hand on his thigh just now – his skin still burns from it – and he remembers how she had called out to him from the bathing room in the grip of pleasure... and he remembers how she had moved with him, under him, against him on the berry-scattered ground... and he remembers how she had crawled into his lap to chase his scent and taste on that hilltop overlooking the castle...

  
He shudders, sighs, says, “I... also have no objections.”

  
He has surprised her; she turns toward him, her lips parting. “You...” she begins, licking her lips too quickly for it to be more than a nervous gesture. His body, already simmering with heat and expectation and Want, does not particularly care. The sight does things to him that ought to be impossible.

  
And then she smiles. She lifts her hands to the belt of her robe, unties it, and shrugs the garment from her shoulders. Alice –  _ his wife _ ! – stands, illuminated by the fire, in naught but her very thin nightdress.

  
For a moment, his mind is utterly blank. And then, blessedly, it is not. He gathers his courage, sets the book aside, returns her smile, and murmurs, “Have you swallowed the moon, my Alice? You glow brighter than she tonight.”

 

“Do I? I hope she’s not the jealous sort.” 

 

She walks towards him, her nightdress a whisper against the recently Painted floor.

 

“I’m afraid, Alice,” he admits, but his hands still reach for her.

 

“You won’t break me,” she assures, sinking to her knees before him. This is not right; he should be the one on his knees before  _ her _ , the one supplicating to her brilliance and beauty, not she before him. No, this is Not Right, he suddenly realizes. He is not ready... not  _ calm _ ... not  _ in control! _

 

“No, Alice, please, I…”

 

“I want to.” The statement is resolute. Her eyes burn, two orbs of hazel light. They are the same color, he realizes, as the crystals that light and warm the chandeliers in his Heart room.

 

Alice takes advantage of his inaction to reach up and carefully remove his reading glasses. She sets them on the table which had been created with that very purpose in mind.

 

“Do you trust me?” she asks, though she should know the answer to that. Would know the answer to that, if his trust in her weren’t so tangled up in his lack of the emotion towards himself. He swallows.

 

“I have faith in you. In whom you are becoming. In whom you already are.”

 

“Then nothing else matters,” she whispers. Placing her palms on his thighs, she slides them slowly, slowly, ever upward. 

 

“Trust me,” she breathes, and his head tilts back, his eyes close. The surrender is complete.

 

The buttons on his trousers are unfastened, one by one, and he feels each instance with exquisite intensity. He is aching, throbbing, panting with each button her careful fingers slip through the holes. With each one released, his desire for her grows stronger. Warm hair is tangled in his grasp before he realizes he’s reached out for her. The unexpected motion disturbs him. He should stop this, he knows. He is not In Control and this could go very badly for her... for them... He licks his lips, summons the words, but they scatter with his next breath.

 

Back aching from restraining his thrusts, he whimpers when she abandons the trouser buttons temporarily in favor of his shirt. She pulls it gently out from his pants. The sensation of the fabric sliding over his skin makes him cry out, and this time he does arch, spasms. Soft wetness on his belly hints at her lips on his skin, but his eyes are still pressed tightly shut.

 

“Alice,” he says, fingers tightening in her hair. He tugs, gently, his eyes open, and he looks down to see her staring up at him. “Stand with me,” he requests. 

 

Leading her, they reach the side of the bed (their bed!) and then he kisses her, his trouser buttons half-undone, shirt untucked, and all. Thoughts of stopping, of delaying, of fearing are no longer nudging his conscience. He needs her, Wants her, will have her...! If she stops touching him now, Tarrant fears he may actually perish from unfulfilled desire. 

 

“Perhaps... we should lie down?” he suggests between heavy breaths, desperate for her, but uncertain of how to continue without…

 

She does so, lying back amongst the pile of pillows she doesn’t care for, but has allowed for  _ him _ , because he requires them for slumber. He lifts himself onto the bed, turns, crawls towards her. He must not hurt her. He must not!

 

Warm arms wind around his shoulders. Warm hands clutch at his loosened shirt. Warm kisses decorate his jaw line. Tarrant tilts his head, nuzzles her neck, breathes in her scent, drowns in it. He has her beneath him, reaching for him, and he Wants that and more! He wants her nightdress on the floor in shreds and her legs around his waist as he...!

 

Tarrant pulls back from her hot, clinging mouth. The need for her is so strong.  _ Too _ strong.

 

“What are you doing? Tarrant?” she asks, as his hands abandon the perfection of her skin – her neck, her arms, her face – to touch his own flesh. He knows he may end up disappointing her but if he does not slake his lust  _ now _ he will Take her! If only Alice weren’t so very warm and welcoming and wonderful and...! It’s better this way, he tells himself, shouts within his own mind. Better to Disappoint than to Damage...! 

 

He thrusts against his hand, pants against her neck, drinks in her scent.  They are here together and she keeps saying his name and he needs her but dear Underland he’s so terrified of hurting her and he doesn’t want to hurt her doesn’t deserve this doesn’t deserve her still wants her needs her has her—!

 

“Tarrant.” 

 

A wave, a clenching, and a tightening that will not be denied, and he releases onto their joined hands. When had hers found their way to atop his? Had they been there all along?

 

Another kiss steals his thoughts along with his breath, revealing both for the unimportant trivialities they are. Tongues rediscover each other, taste, reach. Oh, he had missed her taste in those moments of blind instinct. He had missed her taste and warmth and softness and Alice-ness all through their Courtship. He had denied himself, denied them...

 

No longer.


	47. Guiding Each Other

His hand splays across her belly as he pushes her back, urges her to lie down once more. Removing his shirt, he wipes first her hands clean with the fabric, then his own, before tossing it off the side of the bed, another unimportant detail that will be taken care of later. Tarrant leans back over her, inhales the scent of her arousal. He whimpers at the thought of her wet curls... but no, it’s too soon for that, isn’t it? His Alice will need more wooing before she is Ready and he will need more time before he can even hope to Satisfy her. 

 

His fingers tickle, tease, travel towards her hemline, and then she’s helping him. Her hips are lifting, her back arching, her shoulders rising... The shrift is pulled up and over her head, leaving her open—completely, brazenly bare!—to his hungry gaze.

 

It is just as well he’d already found his release. If he hadn’t he would have undoubtedly marred this perfection with his impatient and inconsolable lust. As it is he cannot stop his hands from smoothing up her sides to her arms and then down to her hands, which he grasps and then turns his own within the cradle of her fingers. He grips her fingertips in his hand, presses them into his palms, urges her to hold onto his hands and  _ not let go. _

 

“I mun touch ye, Alice,” he whispers. “I cannae...”

 

All he can think of is pinning her down and opening his mouth over her breasts, licking and sucking, kissing and biting and  _ tasting _ and... Alice should not be treated like a squimberry tart! He must touch her as he would seduce a batten, please her and tickle her and make her giggle and gasp and groan...

 

But he cannot do that alone.

 

“Steady my hands on your breasts, Alice…” he pleads, “guide me.” 

 

“Tarrant...” she murmurs, her breaths heaving and causing her delectable breasts to rise and fall – temptation itself. She lifts first one hand and then the other to her mouth, kisses his just-healed knuckles and just-uncallused fingertips. Alice watches him as she does this and he watches her, waiting for her to show his hands where to touch her, how to touch her...

 

Her pink tongue emerges from between her teeth and lips, laps at the pad of his middle finger. He shivers and she dares to slide the digit between her lips, just up to the smallest knuckle, and sucks.

 

“ _ Alice! _ ” The quicksilver is back, dancing in his blood. He can feel himself firming although not nearly to the painful hardness he had experienced earlier. Still, it won’t be long and if he has to... relieve himself again he will not be able to give Alice what she wants. What  _ he _ wants.

 

He wants to be inside of her, to be welcomed and caressed and Taken...

 

She pushes his hands down her throat, over her collarbone, and then...

 

“ _ Ah... _ ” He sighs at the same time she gasps. He is  _ touching _ her, his wife, on her lovely and perfect breasts. Her nipples harden against his fingertips and he rubs teasing circles against them with his palms. Alice arcs into his touch and he feels himself leaning over her... He is going fast –  _ too fast – _ but he cannot Stop!

 

He breathes against the crinkled, pink tip of her left breast, dares to lick it briefly, exhales deliberately, enjoys the shiver that ripples through her body. He steadies her breast in his hand and returns his mouth to it, scrapes his teeth over it.

 

The sound she releases is strangled but it would have been a scream had she been even the slightest bit more beyond her own control.

 

“Tarrant,” she begs, squirming urgently beneath him. “Please...”

 

She grasps wildly at his hand, scratching the back of it with her nails. She doesn’t appear to notice and Tarrant decides it’s not worth a mention. No, he’d much rather discover what she wants him to  _ do  _ with his hand. His breath slams into his throat as she presses it against her skin, shoves it down her body to the one place he must wait to touch because she is not Ready and he will be  _ very  _ Ready if he feels her  _ there _ and...

 

Ah, Underland, she  _ is _ wet! He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his teeth. Alice is  _ wet  _ _** for him! ** _ He can feel the dampness that has soaked her feminine curls and his hand trembles between her thighs – which are open  _ for  _ _** him! ** _

  
“It’s all right,” she rasps, pulling his hand away. “You don’t have to if you don’t like—”

  
The very thought that he doesn’t want—! That he doesn’t  _ like— _ !

  
Tarrant feels his nose twitch with her scent; his nostrils flare; he climbs on top of her, slants his mouth hungrily over hers and  _ spears _ her curls with his fingers.  _ This  _ is how much he Wants!  _ This  _ is how much he  _ Likes _ touching her  _ Here. _

  
He swallows her startled gasp as his middle finger, the one she had briefly and tortuously sucked, slips into her hot – Oh, Underland! – wet – Madness save him! – soft – Ah,  _ please! – _ core. If his tongue weren’t so busy commanding her attention, he would have used it to tell her precisely how much he  _ Likes _ having her open and willing and moaning beneath him.

  
Again her hand guides his, she scrabbles at him, maneuvers his hand away, drags the finger that is wet with her essence up between her delectable folds until he feels a small bump in her flesh. The instant he touches her there, she gasps, whines, arches, hisses between her teeth and clutches his shoulder with her other hand.

  
“Like this?” he asks circling that bundle above her entrance. He grins at his choice of words.

  
“Yes,” she answers succinctly, breathlessly, responding to his two-questions-in-one with a very versatile reply of her own.

  
Fascinated by the sight of her flushed with pleasure, he submits to her guiding hand and, moments later, finds his longest finger deep within her and his thumb massaging the pleasurable spot above. She writhes, shudders, clutches at him with both hands and lifts her hips against him, rides his hand,  _ Takes _ him...

  
“Nearly,” she mouths. “Crook your finger... inside.”

  
He does.

  
The effect is electric: her entire body jerks; her fingers clutch his arms so tightly he can feel her short nails digging into his skin; her head slams back against the pillows.

  
She screams.

  
It is still not a  _ proper _ scream, he notes. Perhaps he will – with practice – be able to coax one of those from her lovely throat one day. He marvels as her hips continue to rotate against his hand in small, tense circles. She had found her release – he had seen it, felt it, heard it in the hitching call that had pushed its way out of her throat. But she is still moving... Wanting...

  
“Tarrant?” she whispers, her hands smoothing over the skin that they had just moments earlier been clutching. He shivers as her palm meanders over his shoulder, across his chest, down to his—

  
He jerks as her fingers close around him. He is firm again. Very firm. Hard. He had not noticed until this moment. Until Alice had – quite literally – drawn his attention to it. She licks her lips. “I need...”

  
“Yes,” he growls. He kisses her briefly, deeply, then nuzzles down her throat and trails his teeth over first one breast and then the other. He removes his hand from her warmth, and – uncaring of the wetness on his fingers – pushes her thigh further to the side, crouches between her legs. He does not ask her if she is sure, if she is ready. Her hands reach for his hips; her own hips rock toward him; her thighs are opening wider of  _ her _ _ own accord _ .

  
He is tempted – so tempted – to enter her now, thrust and groan and rock his hips against hers. But no, first... First he will have a Taste of her.

  
“Tarrant? What—?”

  
Before she can try to stop him or deny him, he moves back further, urges her folds to open for him with his thumbs and swipes his tongue across her entrance.

  
“ _ Tarrant! _ ”

  
It does not sound like an objection, so he does it again, lingering this time and extending his venture up further until.

  
“ _ TARRANT! _ ”

  
She comes again, arching and rocking and a whining wheeze escapes her throat. One day, when he has mastered his control, he will return to this point. He will investigate just how much pleasure he can give her with a soft, hot, agile tongue applied to her most secret of secrets. But not now. Not tonight.

  
He rises over her, the inside of her thighs brushing against his sides and hips. He grasps her knees, moves his hands down to cradle her calves. She locks her ankles together behind his back and pulls him toward her. He braces his hands on either side of her arms and then her pale hands are reaching between them, grasping him –  _ oh, Alice! _ – and  _ guiding _ him in...!

  
Outlandish – even garbled Outlandish is not enough to describe the sensation of being inside his wife whose body is so hot and deep and wet and perfectly shaped to hold him. For a long moment, he cannot move, cannot think or breathe at the feel of her like this –  _ Why _ had he refused her that day on the hilltop? – and then she moves impatiently against him.

  
“Tarrant,  _ please... _ ”

  
“Alice,” he hears himself babble over and over again. “Alice, I love you. I want you. I want...  _ need _ ... Love...”

  
“I love you, Tarrant,” she whispers into his ear, causing him to shudder and his hips to jerk and his mind to blank and there exists nothing else in the world but this feeling of in and out and faster and more and harder and  _ there! _ and  _ “give me” _ and  ** again! ** and in and out and winding tighter and faster and more – much more! – and—!

  
“ _** TARRANT! ** _ ”

  
And then: hot-tight-wet-more-fast- _ tighter _ - _ hotter-shuddering-reaching-grabbing-thrusting-mine-soft-take-have-faster-Alice-MINE! _

  
Perhaps he says her name as his release crashes into him, wrings him, destroys and remakes him. Perhaps he merely shouts a sobbing cry. He follows the sounds of his own labored breaths back to reality, to this bed, to his wife and finds himself still on top of her, bracing himself on his elbows to keep from crushing her completely although he knows he  _ is _ still squishing her into the mattress. But, if the fingertips trailing aimlessly over his bare back are any indication, Alice doesn’t mind.

  
Still searching for a breath (all the ones he takes escape as soon as possible; perhaps they are the wrong breaths and he is Stealing them from their rightful owner?), he smiles against his wife’s neck, licks a patch of damp, sweaty skin just below her ear.

  
“Alice...” he gasps. “Tell me you’re all right. Lie if you must, just please tell me that I didn’t... that tonight won’t be the last time we...”

  
She presses a trembling hand to his cheek. “I won’t lie, my husband. You were perfect, wonderful, spectacular... And I’m sure I will want more... after a bit of a nap.”

  
He snorts with laughter against her skin. And marvels that the sensation of Pure Relief has quite a lot in common with Falling Asleep. He is aware – although only vaguely – of moving off of her, of kicking off his trousers which are crushed around his knees, of offering Alice the handkerchief he keeps in his left-side trouser pocket, of cloth gently touching – cleaning – his utterly exhausted sex... And then he slips away into slumber.


	48. The Beginning

Tarrant Hightopp, a had-been Mad Hatter who had once lead a Resistance and who is now the Royal Haberdasher to the White Queen of Underland, is most definitely a Morning Person.

  
This is Alice ’s first thought as she wakes to the feel of his arm wrapped around her waist, his hand cupping her breast. His longer and heavier leg had been thrown over both of hers and...

  
Yes, she knows what that is pressing hotly, mindlessly into her hip.

  
There is no denying the Facts: her husband is a Morning Person.

  
She, herself, is not. This  _ could _ be a problem, she muzzily considers... Luckily, she’s willing to let him do his best to convince her to change her habits. She shifts against him, rolling from her side onto her back. This causes Tarrant’s head to slip off of the tower of pillows that had assembled themselves beneath his head during the night. He comes awake with a snort and a start... a startled twitch that rubs his hardness against her flesh even  _ more  _ insistently.

  
“Al... Alice?”

  
“Hm,” she replies, amused despite both the early hour and the fact that there is not a single steaming teapot to be had in the room.

  
He scrambles away from her, clutching the sheet to his middle. Alice finds it highly amusing that of the two of them – neither of which are wearing a single stitch of clothing – _ he _ is the one who seems shocked and embarrassed. “I’m sorry!” he gasps, clearly referring to the liberties that  _ that _ rather unruly part of him had been taking on her person.

  
Alice merely smiles, reaches over and pulls the sheet from his grasp, tosses it toward the end of the bed, and wraps the same hand around his neck.

  
It would have been – should have been – harder to convince him to roll back toward her had he  _ truly _ meant that apology. Alice doesn ’t mind the insincerity so much, not while she’s remembering the feel of his mouth on her skin and the thrusts of his body within hers and...

  
She shivers.

  
Tarrant probably would have chastised her for tossing away the sheet and allowing herself to catch a chill except he is busy gasping instead. Alice applies her mouth to his chest; she had wanted to taste his dark nipples last night but, somehow, hadn’t taken the opportunity to do so.

  
She throws a leg over his hip – her thigh muscles protesting mightily at the aerobic gesture – hooks an arm around his shoulder and hums appreciatively as it takes very little actual effort to persuade him to cover her with his body, to lean over her with his hardness pressing against her and his hips in the cradle of hers.

  
In all honesty, she might like to reverse their positions at some point, but as  _ he  _ is a Morning Person and  _ she  _ is not... well... it ’s only fair that he put that energy to Good Use, isn’t it?

  
“ Alice...?” he rumbles as she nuzzles her way from his shoulder to his neck and then that very  _ private _ place just beneath his ear. He swallows. She feels his Adam ’s apple bob against her chin. “ You are...?”

  
Loving the rasping, needy quality of his voice, she rubs herself against his chest, drags a foot up the back of his thigh. “Ready,” she replies, rolling her hips against him. 

  
He groans, reaching between them and smoothing his palm from the inside of her knee up her thigh to... “Ahh...” he gasps. She thrusts back against his questing fingers. “Ye  _ are sae... _ ”

  
She had suspected as much, but she feels a thrill of feminine pride at the observation. Yes, she Wants him. Her body and her mind and her heart are all in agreement on that.

  
He shivers and braces himself. Looks down at her and she loves him for his tousled hair and ungroomed eyebrows and gob smacked, lustful expression.

  
She holds onto his shoulders as he begins to ease his hardness into her softness, her wetness, her warmth. He moves into her as he had last night, fills her, with such gentleness and care she feels her nails digging into his flesh. She wants  _ more _ but she holds still. This is as new to him as it is to her. She does not know her limits anymore than she knows his.

  
“Are you all right?” she whispers and he nods.

  
“Alice...” and his hips give a small, hesitant thrust which makes him gasp and whine quite involuntarily.

  
The hot sound of his pleasure, the feel of him  _ within  _ her again, has her arcing against him, helpless to restrain herself. “Please,” she whispers.

  
“Again?” he confirms, pulling away slowly and – maddeningly – pausing. “One more time?”

  
She shakes her head, her hands scrabbling against his skin, her hips seeking his with restless movements. “Many times,” she corrects him, hooking her heels behind his knees and  _ pulling  _ herself toward him. He gasps and she moans, “Many, many, many, many times, Tarrant. Please...” 

  
“ _ Ngh _ ...!” The whine is even more expressive than his groans. He is giving in. “Oh, Alice... as many as you wish.” And then he  _ thrusts. _

  
She gasps, grabs for him, opens to him and he moves again, faster, more insistently, more confidently. He leans back until he is sitting upright and her hands find their way to his chest. She can see him clearly, can watch as his stomach muscles bunch beneath his pale skin with every forward motion of his hips.

  
“Tarrant...” she pants as he gently presses her legs open a bit more and looks down at where their bodies are joined, watches himself disappear within her... then pull out... and press back in again.

  
“Alice...” he replies, entranced by the sight of them coming together. Alice wishes that she could see it, but suddenly  _ something _ within her tightens, swells... He feels harder within her although that can ’t be the case. It is  _ she  _ who has—

  
“ _ Alice! Ngh... _ !”

  
It is  _ she _ who is clamping down on  _ him _ and she doesn’t want this sensation to end although she knows it must! If it doesn’t her heart will burst and her lungs will flatten and she will  _ lose her mind—! _

  
The scream forces itself out between her clenched teeth. Her eyes close and her toes tingle and her arms drop to the bed, limp and useless. She breathes. That and no more.

  
“Alice?” he whispers worriedly after a moment. She summons the strength to open her eyes before he can pull out of her. She most definitely does not wish to make him believe that he should stop! She can still feel him, hard and  _ inside _ and...

  
“More...” she requests, her fingers stealing up his arms and her hips tilting in invitation. “More, Tarrant.”

  
“Aye, m’wife,” he murmurs, moving again, slowly at first but with increasing speed with every encouraging murmur and caress she gives him.

  
The second time she finds her release, it is to the sight of his face, lost in what must be a sensation so exquisite it steals every thought from his mind, and to the feel of his hips snapping uncontrollably against her body, and she does not  _ feel _ it when he empties himself into her, but she  _ hears _ the catch in his voice as he calls her name, sees the blank stare in his unfocused eyes as he falls into the pleasure  _ she _ has given him...

  
Her own pleasure rolls through her an instant before his thumb brushes against that small coil of sensitive flesh between her legs and that amplifies  _ everything _ ...

  
And by the sound of his gasp, he feels it, too. White noise – the sound of her own blood rushing – fills her ears as her body shudders again. When she finally manages to open her eyes, gasping for both breath and thought, her husband is there, gasping with her, glowing with happiness and his own well-deserved serving of pride. (Pride of the masculine, variety, obviously.)

  
“Underland save us,” she mutters, shifting and ignoring the screaming of her thigh muscles. “If we are  _ this _ good now... how... in the future... are we  _ ever  _ going to survive becoming more... proficient?”

  
He giggles breathlessly and, leaning down, kisses her good morning. “With practice, I should think, my Alice. With a great deal of practice.”

  
She groans at the thought. Dear tea trays and table cloths but marrying Tarrant Hightopp is, without a doubt, the best decision she has ever made. Sighing, happily, she accepts Tarrant ’s weight against her. He nibbles her collarbone and caresses her arms with his large, warm hands until she wishes he would... or rather, she wants to... well... but they’d just...!

  
“Again, my Alice?” he murmurs as her hips nudge upward in helpless reaction to the attention he is paying her neck with his lips and breath and the touch of his palm drawing circles on her hip.

  
“I...” How does she say  _ yes _ to that without sounding ungrateful for all he’d given her already?

  
He huffs against her ear. “I’m sorry, I can’t...” His pause is significant and Alice realizes he’s talking about the fact that he’s not... hard anymore. “But, I  _ can _ ...” he suggests, leaning heavily on his left elbow and smoothing his right hand up over her hip and toward her pelvis.

  
“Hnn...” she moans in thanks as he touches her again. Alice begins to doubt her insistence that she is not a Morning Person herself as she responds to his increasingly-skillful touch. Her third release is not as dramatic as the others, but it is satisfying. Unfortunately, the tensing of her body pushes him out of her.

  
“I’m sorry,” she pants as he scrambles for a clean corner of sheet.

  
“Ne’er,” he says, swooping down to kiss her thoroughly, “apologize for such beauty, Alice.”

  
“But I...  _ three times _ !”

  
“Aye,” he agrees with a smirk that Alice thinks looks quite tasty. “I noticed.”

  
Alice narrows her eyes at him in playful warning. “That can’t be...  _ normal. _ ”

  
“Would you be disappointed if it were?” he quizzes, lying down beside her and pressing kisses to her temple, her hair, her cheek.

  
She laughs. “I suppose not.” She turns toward him and teases, “Do you think you can keep up with your wife’s demands?”

  
His brows arc with abject shock. “And if I cannot?”

  
Alice sighs. “I guess it will fall to me to... inspire you.”

  
“Alice,” he breathes, gently nipping her jaw. “You do that without even trying. I am not sure I can survive an intentional effort.”

  
She giggles and squirms closer to him. She ignores the sunlight coming through the window: a new day has begun and yet they are both still bare and tangled in sheets that smell of their... activities. Alice knows that the reality of employment, friends, and responsibility beckon them; for the moment, she doesn ’ t care. In languid motions, her fingers tickle a trail across Tarrant ’ s chest, dancing through the sparse hairs to be found there, continuing upward to trace his collarbone. He giggles, and she smiles against the warm curve of his neck. 

  
“We don ’ t have to go back to the castle...  _ quite _ yet, do we, Tarrant?”

  
He sighs and she looks up into green eyes lit with a peace Alice has never seen in them. Her husband replies huskily, “Nay, no ’ _ quite _ yet, my Alice. We have... a bit o ’ time yet... ”


	49. And More

And, five days later, when Alice and Tarrant emerge in the halls of the White Castle, she not only has a new appreciation of her friends and their importance to her:

  
“La! I  _ missed _ you, Alice!”

  
“Well, I ’d say you don’t need  _ me _ to chaperone you any longer...”

  
“Och! Lock an’ key! Don’ b’ wearin’ ’em out nauw!”

  
“I told yah you’d be glad yah took matters into your own hands!”

  
“Ah, Alice! I’m so glad you have no regrets!”

  
Alice also has a very  _ unique _ appreciation of her husband’s concept of  _ a bit of time. _ It’s an interpretation that she likes  _ very much _ , she decides. Especially when that time is spent with him, at their house or in their garden.

  
“Tarrant?” she muses aloud one evening, a few days after he had returned to his work and she had puttered around their house and garden.

  
“Yes, my wife?”

  
“I think I’ve made up my mind.”

  
“Regarding what?”

  
She smiles and he smiles back. A week ago, that vague statement would have alarmed him. It doesn’t now... because he trusts her, trusts himself, trusts what they have become  _ together _ .

  
Alice says, “I think I would like to meet the Royal Carpenter. Bridging places together with doors sounds... marvelously intriguing.”

  
“I would be pleased to introduce you. When would you like to meet him?” He turns away from the cupboards in the kitchen, having just stacked the last clean plate with its fellows. Alice can’t help herself from eyeing his bare forearms. There is just  _ something _ about seeing him with his shirtsleeves rolled up that has the power to distract her from almost anything... 

  
“Alice?” he prompts gently, a knowing smile curving his lips. “The Royal Carpenter? When would you like me to make the introductions?”

  
Well and truly caught in the act of ogling, Alice doesn’t bother to pretend she  _ hadn _ ’ _ t  _ just let herself get caught up in the enjoyment of simply looking at him. Instead, she smiles unrepentantly and turns back to the sink. Filling the kettle with water, she replies, “Perhaps tomorrow? Following afternoon tea?”

  
His brows twitch at the suggestion. “And not in the morning? Forgive me, Alice, but I’ve noticed you do not care for waiting once you have made up your mind on a matter...”

  
She laughs. “There’s nothing to forgive. You are entirely correct. It’s simply that... I have something else I need to attend to before I can think about a future career.”

  
“And what might that be?”

  
Alice sets the kettle on the stove, turns, steps into his arms and, placing her hands on his warm, solid shoulders and a kiss on his chin, says, “I have a husband to introduce to my mother and sister. Don’t worry,” she continues, circumventing his frown of concern. “I’ll be speaking to the Queen about the best way to send a letter to them. I want them to know that I forgive them... and that I am well. And loved.”

  
“Aye,” he agrees, his arms tightening around her. He murmurs against her temple. “Ye are Loved... ver’much, mae Alice.”

  
She wraps her arms around his neck on a happy sigh. “Yes,” she agrees. “I  _ know _ .”


	50. An Anniversary

“Here you are, dearest.” 

 

Philomena blinks her heavily kohl-lined eyes, focusing on the treats that had momentarily interrupted her relating of Very Important Things. 

 

“Geoff, I’ve gained a stone since we began our Courtship, I hope you are aware.” 

 

Blue eyes twinkle at her, and Philomena knows that what he says next will have her reaching out for the plate. It seems whenever he gets that particular look in his eyes, she is unable to tell him ‘no’ to whatever it is that he suggests. “Believe me, Mena, I’ve noticed.” His eyes slant in an expression that never fails to send a fissure of heat down her spine. “Besides, they’re good for you. And look how delicious they seem! Why, if my spouse offered me a plate of crumpets that were chock full of berries and grains and…”

 

“Oh, give one here,” Philomena cedes, motioning for Geoffrey to bring the plate closer. “La, crumpets!” she sighs, picking one up and taking a large, unladylike bite. “Wethe weally arw wewwy nummy, Geoff-y.” 

 

“You know that I hate it when you call me that,” Geoffrey offers, but the protest sounds, at best, half-hearted now. Philomena has been calling him that for well over ten months now, four of which have been spent in happily wedded bliss. If he’d truly protested to her calling him by that moniker, why, they would have never gotten out of the Luckluster Library, would they?

 

Swallowing that bite and taking another, Mena argues around her food, “No, you don’t. You love it, Geoff, and you know it.” 

 

“You never do stop talking, do you?” One of Geoffrey’s well-manicured fingers winds itself around a crimp in her freshly whitened hair. Mena sputters defensively.

 

“Surely I can’t talk  _ all _ the time.” 

 

Smirking, Geoffrey assures her, “Last night I was treated to a full discussion on the merits of merlot nail lacquer versus plum, dearest.  _ While you slept _ .” 

 

Sure that her blush was shining through her layers of carefully applied powder, Philomena asks, “And which did you decide you preferred, Geoff? The plum or the merlot?” 

 

“I believe my opinion was irrelevant in your musings, Mena. You were most concerned about Alice’s thoughts on the matter, actually.” 

 

“Oh, la! Now you’re just being  _ silly _ , Geoff! Alice  _ never _ wears nail lacquer, what with opening all of those Doors to and fro! Whatever would I ask  her thoughts on such a matter for? Oh--!” She grasps Geoffrey’s arm to keep him from removing the crumpets from her presence with one hand and snatches for another with her the other. “Did you  _ see _ Alice and Tarrant yesterday coming in from the Snud-facing garden? Her  _ hair _ ! And wherever do you think  _ his _ ascot got off to? La! I don‘t believe she was even  _ aware _ that her tunic was  _ backwards _ !”

 

Geoffrey snorts, and says, “Quite.  _ His _ shirt was untucked and very rumpled, as well. I suppose it follows if they couldn’t even manage to court properly than the marriage that resulted from that Courtship would be equally improper.” 

 

Another bite, and Mena chastises her husband with a sharp, playful, “La, Geoff, aren’t you being just a tad critical? We were not exactly the souls of propriety towards the end of our Courtship either, if I recall.” 

 

“Our Courtship lasted considerably longer than theirs, Mena.”

 

Philomena continues as if Geoffrey hadn‘t spoken. “And if I recall correctly, a certain someone,” here she pauses to give him a pointed look, accentuated by batting crystal-dust-coated lashes coyly, “lost his jacket, waistcoat, and ascot in the stream, where it was fished out by that absolute tart Lady Callia—”

 

Rushing to defend himself, Geoffrey asserts, “That was only after someone else misplaced their garters and invited Sir Frederick to assist them in finding them!” 

 

Giggling, Philomena says, “La! Just wait until the Kingsleigh-Hightopp Courtship Anniversary Party next week, Geoff! I won’t be the only member of the Court known for such behaviors, mark my words!” 

 

Clearly intrigued, Geoffrey murmurs, “Hearing rumbles, are you? Pray tell, dearest.” 

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Have they served the pears?” 

 

“Yes, Alice.” 

 

“Not  _ our _ pears, but just… pears. In general. From the trees on the edge of the wood?” 

 

Tarrant can not let the opportunity to tease his wife pass him by. “What, you didn’t want to serve pears from Our Tree? Oh, dear. This is most inconvenient, as I’ve already had Chessur take the trays out… but I suppose if we hurry, we can gather them up before too many couples taste what could be in their future…”

 

Alice’s look of alarm is extreme; a chortle bubbles up from his throat, giving away the joke, and she smacks him lightly upon the arm. “Do not do that to me, Tarrant! Good Underland, but you nearly gave me an apoplexy! Thinking of all of those couples with our fruit…!”

 

Kissing her swiftly, enjoying the soft sound of their lips meeting and the gentle caress of her touch, Tarrant whispers against her mouth, “Nay, Alice. Those are for us, and us alone.” Caressing her waist, he asks, “How long until we need to make our appearance on the hilltop, wife?” 

 

“Not long enough to indulge in the direction in which your thoughts have wandered, husband,” Alice tells him. 

 

Pouting out his lower lip in what he hopes is a beguiling manner, Tarrant wheedles, “Are you certain, Alice? We can duck into your Heart room…take a small basket with us…no one will even notice that we are gone…”

 

“There you are!” Tweedle Dee waddles into the room, effectively quashing any success Tarrant may have hoped to have in regards to convincing his wife to forgo the festivities of the day for something that, in his opinion, would have been a decidedly more festive way to celebrate the anniversary of the commencement of their Courtship. “I told you they’d be in heres, didn’t I, Dum?” 

 

“No, I told yous they’d be here, and you said they wouldn’t, you did,” Tweedle Dum insists, coming up behind his brother. 

 

“Hello, boys,” Alice greets them, stepping out of Tarrant’s arms and towards the twins. “Is it time, then?” 

 

“It is indeed, Alice,” Dee nods.

 

“Yes, the Queen told us she and Thackery and all the others are waitin’ on you, they are.” Their message delivered, the boys turn around and leave them, chucking each other on the back of the head, arguing over what delicacies they would eat first.

 

Smiling, Alice turns to him, and the sheer joy in her expression steals Tarrant’s breath for a moment. “Shall we go, husband? I’m looking forward to constructing a great number of Doors to the Bottom of Hearts this season.”

 

“Is that the only reason you agreed to host this event, wife? To further assist your career as Underland’s premier Door Crafter?” Tarrant lifts his brow in challenge, and Alice laughs.

 

“Well, I shall not lie and say that the thought did not cross my mind that if a great many couples left the library then they would be needing Doors…”

 

Tarrant grins, knowing there is a ‘but’ coming.

 

“But—” Alice pauses when she sees his tie flutter, brow raised. Clearly deciding to let the show of emotion pass for the moment, she continues with, “my main motivation is seeing as many couples as happily settled as we are, husband.” 

 

“Are you happy, wife?” Alice has told him—many times!—that she loves him, that she needs him, and yes, that she’s happy—but he never tires of hearing it come from her lips.

 

“Of course, husband! Do you doubt me when I tell you that our marriage makes me the happiest of women?”

 

“No, my Alice…” Tarrant whispers, freshly bandaged fingers winding through her hair. “I would just like to hear you say it… once more.” 

 

Obliging him, Alice stands on her toes, brushes her nose past his, and sighs against his mouth, “You make me so very happy, Tarrant. I Love you, husband.”

 

“And I Love you, wife. My Alice…” he nuzzles his face against hers, nips her chin lightly with his teeth, sighs as her warm wet mouth finds his neck and begins suckling. 

 

“There you are!” Philomena flounces into the room— _ blast _ !—interrupting them once again. “Oh, la! There is time enough for  _ that _ later!” she says, snapping her fingers in their general direction as Alice and Tarrant reluctantly part. Tarrant scowls at her, but knows that he will not stay irritated at her for long. People seldom are, with Philomena. “Those Tweedle boys said they’d told you ten minutes past that we were all ready for you, and when I heard that, I said to myself, ‘Self, you must go and fetch them immediately, before that husband of Alice’s manages to convince her to away to their Rooms!’” 

 

Sure that he is flushing in what could only be a guilty manner, Tarrant steps away from Alice, adjusts his waistcoat, re-tightens his ascot (which somehow, in their clinch, had managed to loosen itself… Alice’s fingers  _ are _ rather clever… and not only with Door Craft), and clears his throat. Thus prepared, he gallantly offers an arm to both ladies, who accept with giggles (Philomena) and an appreciative sigh (Alice).

 

“Why thank you, sir!” Philomena cheers. “I am most grateful for your easy acquiescence. Why, Geoffrey insisted that you would refuse to come down for another full half-hour! It is gratifying, indeed, that  _ I _ will be proven correct!”

 

Tarrant giggles and leaning in toward Alice ’s ear whispers, “A mere half an hour is far too brief a time to accomplish things...  _ satisfactorily _ . Shall I inform our Lady Philomena that she would have been proven correct in  _ either _ case?”

 

“Tarrant!” Alice hisses on a bubble of laughter.

 

And although the words had not been meant for Philomena ’s ears, she had heard them nonetheless. “Oh, ho! La! I should very much like my Geoff-y to hear  _ that _ !”

 

And as Philomena raises a hand to wave her husband over to them, Alice leans heavily on her husband ’s arm until her lips are a whisper away. “More than a half an hour, hm? I’ll hold you to that.”

 

“I trust you will, my wife,” he whispers back, eyes shining with mirth and promise and happiness and Love. “And I am very much looking forward to it.”


End file.
